Your Mind Tricked You to Feel the Pain
by bambers2
Summary: Dean has kept a secret from Sam for months, one he is terrified to share. But as he looks at his brother, and for a moment doesn't remember who Sam is, Dean realizes that some secrets aren't meant to be kept...
1. Chapter 1

_So another new story...what can i say, my mind can't stick to just one thing...hope everyone enjoys!! bambers;) As with all stories...any episode of Supernatural is fair game..._

_Your Mind Tricked You to Feel the Pain_

_Chapter One_

Dean eased out of bed careful not to wake his sleeping brother, grabbed a journal from beneath his pillow, and took slow strides toward the bathroom. Quietly shutting the door behind him, he sunk to the cold tile floor, and set the writing tablet beside him. Bringing his knees up, he rested his aching head on folded arms.

As he sat there, he tried to recall their last hunt, but couldn't think of a single detail. The bruised ribs and deep cuts across his chest told him that it had been as recent as a few days ago, but his mind refused to see beyond the night before.

He didn't want to ask Sam about it, knowing his brother would start to worry that maybe he had some sort of concussion, but Dean was certain he hadn't hit his head. Well, as certain as he could be since he couldn't remember what had actually happened.

His mind raced to think of the last hunt he could remember and the only one he could clearly recall was the one after the Roosevelt Asylum. _Yeah, that scarecrow was one fugly sonuvabitch. _He chuckled, but as he thought back to that last memory, his smile quickly faded.

Scrubbing his open hand across his face, he glanced around the small bathroom. _That couldn't have been the last hunt we were on. _He picked up the journal and opened it to the first page. His normally legible handwriting seemed hurried and scrawled with deep looping letters. The only time it looked like something he would've written was when his own name appeared on the page. _When the hell did I write this? _

As he flipped through the pages, Dean noticed the handwriting changed drastically on each of them, and almost appeared as if someone else had written the notes. Again the only time it reminded him of his writing was when his own name was mentioned. _I couldn't have wrote this? Hell, none of it even makes sense._

Dean turned back to the first page and reread what was written.

_There is a cold dark place in my mind. It is where my soul seeks comfort, but finds none. From shallow graves and sleepless nights I have somehow lost my way. I may not want to understand it, but as time goes on this journal will be my only way to recall what has happened and what has been lost along the way. I can't let Sammy know what is happening. Can't let him worry. So until I figure it out, I have to write it all down so as not to forget. Dean _

The rest of the pages were filled with more of the same, but also spoke of hunts they'd been on and injuries Dean and Sam had received. Yet, no matter how many pages he flipped through, the notes to himself always began the same way.

_Why don't I remember going back to Lawrence? I should at least recall going home? Seeing Mom? God, what the hell is happening to me?_

Slowly, Dean made his way to his feet, tugged off shirtsweats and boxers, and stepped into the shower. Turning on the faucets, he swivelled around and rested his head against his arms as the hot water eased away the aches in his taut sore back muscles.

As he stood there, he thought of the three journals he had written. _When did I start writing them? And how did I know I was gonna forget all these things? _

Lathing the soap, he washed his lean muscular chest, careful not to reopen the four slashing wounds that ran vertically across it. His hand trailed down to his side and he winced. Glancing down, he noticed deep purplish bruises. _These had to have hurt like a bitch when they happened. Maybe I did hit my head. Yeah, like that explains the journals._

A quiet knock on the door, startled Dean out of his thoughts.

"Dean, you okay?" came Sam's concerned voice.

"M'okay, Sammy, just finishin' up."

"All right . . . I'll go get some coffee."

"Thanks, Sam."

Dean poured some shampoo in his hand and vigorously scrubbed his scruffy hair, hoping that somehow if he scrubbed hard enough the memories would shake loose and he would feel normal again. Leaning under the steamy water, he brusquely raked his fingers through his hair to get all the suds out.

For several moments, he stood there letting the water soak through his hair, and wash down over his face and body. Eyes closed, he felt his taut muscles begin to relax and the aches to ease away.

Grabbing the soap off the shower ledge, he washed the rest of his lean muscular body, wincing again as his hand brushed past the bruises on his side. Standing under the water, he rinsed off, and then turned off the water.

Dean snatched the towel of the rack, and scrubbed it through his hair, then dried his arms and chest, before wrapping the towel around his waist. Stepping out of the shower, he trudged to the sink, and cleared away the mist from the mirror with his hand.

He stared at his reflection, and for a moment he almost didn't recognize himself. His eyes seemed more blue than green. Jaw more round than angular. Hair lighter than he recalled. But, in a blink his own familiar face returned to stare back at him. _Okay, first not remembering things, and now seeing things . . . so not good._

Gathering his clothes and the journal off the floor, Dean opened the door, and strode to his duffel. He tucked the journal as close to the bottle of the bag as he could, not wanting his brother to stumbled across it on accident.

The front door opened, and Dean turned to see his brother standing there staring at him. Concern was clearly evident on the youngest Winchester's face as he watched Dean shuffling through his duffel.

"Dean, what's wrong?" Sam walked to the table and set down both cups of coffee, his gaze never straying from Dean's. "You've been acting strange for weeks now. I noticed you writing something last night, and when I asked you what it was, you almost acted as if you didn't know you were writing anything."

"Probably cause I wasn't, geekboy. When's the last time you saw me write anything down?" Dean said evasively.

"Dunno, but it's not only that, Dean. It was almost like you had no idea who I was either, and I gotta tell ya, it scared the hell outta me."

"You must've been dreaming, Sammy." Dean snatched a faded black t-shirt out of his bag, and slipped it on. Rummaging through his clothes, he found clean boxers and jeans and put them on.

"Wasn't dreamin' Dean." Sam pushed out a chair at the table, sat and stretched out his long lanky legs. "An' you've been doing the same thing on and off for about two months now."

"What are you talking about?"

"You know what I'm talking about, dude. We go on a hunt, you forget where you parked the car. We're in a diner eating, you get up to go to the bathroom, and never return." Sam was quiet for a moment, watching Dean expectantly, waiting for some kind of response, that Dean didn't know how to answer. "Hell, Dean just the other night, you asked me three times what we were hunting. What the hell's going on?"

"Three times?"

"Yeah, Dean, three times." Grabbing his coffee off the table, Sam gulped some of it down, and then continued, "An' what really bothers me is that we've already had this conversation at least two times before now. M'okay, Sammy, just isn't gonna work this time, Dean."

Dean trudged to the chair opposite Sam, and sank down in the seat. Closing tired eyes, he rubbed them as he tried to recall ever having a conversation like this with his brother, but couldn't remember anything. "Not sure what to tell ya, Sammy."

"Start by telling me what you were writing. Seemed like it was real important to you at the time."

"Don't know what I was writing." He glanced over at his brother and saw the look of disbelief in his hazel eyes. "It's the truth, Sammy. You wanna know, go get the journal from my bag."

Sam stared at him for a moment, and then was on his feet, stalking over to Dean's duffel. Shuffling through Dean's clothes, he finally found it, and brought it back to the table. He sat down and opened the journal. Dean saw the puzzled look cross his younger brother's features as he flipped through page after page of the meaningless nonsense.

Finally pausing in his search for answers, Sam looked up at him. "Is it all like this?"

"Yeah. Pretty much."

"And you don't remember any of it?" Sam asked, scrubbing his hand across his face.

"No. I don't remember any of it. Not writing it, not living it. Nothing."

"How long has this been going on for?"

Dean shook his head, and shrugged, letting out a deep sigh. "Dunno. Have three journals filled with stuff like that."

"This one starts right after we were at the Roosevelt Asylum. God, Dean, that was months and months ago." Sam stared at him incredulously. "Why the hell didn't you tell me?"

"It wasn't this bad at first, Sammy. Forgot little things, but didn't think much of it."

"An' now?"

Dean hesitated in answering, knowing how his brother would reacted. Lowering his head, he finally replied in a quiet, shaky voice, "I can barely remember what happened yesterday."

"Yesterday?" Sam repeated, and Dean could tell he was having a difficult time accepting it and controlling his temper. "Yesterfreakinday, and you didn't think that was important enough to share."

"Thought it would all come back to me. Didn't think it would get worse."

Sam shuffled through the pages again searching for anything to explain Dean's memory loss. Every page was filled with frantic writing, but none of it made much sense. "What does, There is a cold dark place in my mind. It is where my soul seeks comfort, but finds none. From shallow graves and sleepless nights I have somehow lost my way. I may not want to understand it, but as time goes on this journal will be my only way to recall what has happened and what has been lost along the way, mean? It's written on every page."

"Been trying to figure that one out myself."

"Okay, it must mean something important." Sam tapped on the page of the journal for emphasis. "My best guess is something happened at the Roosevelt Asylum, an' so we gotta go back there."

"An' do what?"

"I dunno. Dig for answers. Something had to have happened there that you just don't remember."

"What if it has nothing to do with the asylum, Sammy?" Dean hesitated, not knowing if he wanted Sam to realize how much the thought of losing his memories terrified him. "What if it has nothing to do with anything supernatural?"

"Whatever it is, we'll deal with it."

Dean stood abruptly, strode toward the bed, reached under the mattress, and yanked out two more journals. He brought them back to the table, threw them on it, and turned away before Sam could see his face. "Read the newest entry."

Sam flipped through the pages until he found the one Dean was talking about and read it to himself. The first lines were the same as in the book he'd already scanned through, but what came after nearly stole his breath away.

_He has dark hair and a winning smile. Not sure why I should know him, but he seems to know me. He calls me Dean, and I am not sure how he knows my name. There is something about him that is familiar and if I think hard enough about it, I am sure I have seen him before. There is something in his hazel eyes that I can't quite understand. He wants something from me. I am almost sure of it. Dean_

Sam swallowed hard as he reread the passage again. He glanced at his brother, but Dean refused to look in his direction."This is what you were writing last night? You didn't remember who I was?"

Dean gave a curt nod, afraid if he said anything at that moment he would totally lose any control he held over the situation.

"So last night when I thought you didn't know who I was, you really didn't." Sam was back on his feet, storming to his brother. Grabbing hold of Dean's arm, Sam swung his brother to face him. When Dean still refused to look at him, Sam's anger exploded. "Damn it, Dean! Look at me! How the hell could you let this happen?"

Dean shrugged free of Sam's grip, and pushed away from him. "Didn't let it happen, Sammy. It just happened." He stalked to the table, snatched the journals off of it, looked them over briefly, and then whipped them at the wall in aggravation. "You think I wanted you to know that I'm losing my mind? God, Sammy, I'm supposed to be watching out for you. What the hell am I supposed to do if I can't even remember who you are soon?"

"It's not gonna happen. We're gonna figure this out."

"What if there's nothing to figure out?"

"Then we'll deal with that when it happens. But for now we're heading back to the Roosevelt Asylum."


	2. Chapter 2

_so new chappy...Fanfic is all messed up so i'm not sure if anyone is actually even reading this, but ah, what the hell...had to repost it last night cause the story somehow got lost, so if you read and had an alert for it, it was erased... thanks for reading!! remember reviews are like gold to me!! i really do live for them!! thanks again, bambers;)_

_Chapter Two_

Out of the corner of his eye, Dean noticed Sam shake his head and let out a low audible sigh as he read over the first journal trying to make sense of it. Dean's grip on the steering wheel tightened as he thought of what Sam must think of him.

Every once in a while Sam would stop reading long enough to glance over at Dean, but Dean kept his sights firmly on the road, not wanting to see the look of pity in his brother's hazel eyes.

_Damn, he has to think I'm out of my freakin mind. _

Dean hadn't wanted to consider that he might be going insane. Didn't want to think what it would do to Sam if he did, but he couldn't escape the very real possibility that it was going to happen. _Maybe if I'd just told him sooner, we could've figured this out. _

He thought of the look in his brother's eyes when he read that Dean hadn't known who he was. Saw the fear that Sam had tried so hard to conceal. Sam was trying so desperately to find reasons for why Dean's memories were failing, but Dean knew deep down his brother was terrified that it was some sort of mental illness. _I can't do this to him. Can't put him through this. He deserves better than to have a brother who is going out of his mind. _

"Find anything yet, Sammy?"

Sam set the journal on his lap, and turned sideways in his seat to look at Dean. "Not yet, but that doesn't mean I won't," Sam said as reassuringly as he possibly could. "You said, you remembered the hunt in Burkitsville, Indiana, yet you don't remember when we went home to Lawrence which happened before we went to the Roosevelt Asylum. . . . ." Sam's voice trailed off, and Dean could tell the thought of his not remembering going home really worried his little brother. "You wrote about Lawrence after Burkitsville."

"Guess I just didn't want to forget it."

"Maybe . . . noticed you've written some of the hunts out of order, and also some hunts we've never been on."

"Thanks, for that buckets of crazy report, Sammy."

"I'm just saying that maybe there's a reason why." Sam picked up the book again, and turned a few pages, and gestured to an almost blank page. "There were also a couple pages you left almost empty except for writing the same first lines."

"So I missed a page or two."

"It's got to mean something, dude. Even if most of this is all rambling, you've been meticulous in getting it all down."

Dean glanced down at the book, and then returned his attention to the road, pressing down harder on the gas pedal. His temples throbbed with the effort it was taking to try and remember the things he'd written, and the things he'd forgotten, and Sam's attempts to help was only making his head pound all the more furiously. "Can we talk about something else for a while?"

"No. We don't know how much time we have left before you . . . ."

"Before I forget everything." Dean swallowed hard, not liking the idea of appearing so weak in his brother's eyes. "Come on, Sammy, you can say it."

"That's not gonna happen, Dean. I won't let it." Sam returned his attention to the book, looking for anything that might stand out as a reason for what was happening to his brother. He flipped back to the pages about Burkitsville and began reading.

_It was dark, and he stood there alone. I drove away. I left him there alone. Why the hell would I do that?_

Sam reread the line over again and felt the guilt his brother poured out onto the page with just a few simple words. He then scanned over the rest of the short passage not understanding any of it.

_They spoke to me, and told me that I was going insane. Told me that they would be there to comfort me. Told me we were one in the same. I can hear them. They're never gonna let me go. I can hear their voices growing louder. Can see them when I sleep. But yet I only can see myself. Dean_

"Dean?"

"Yeah, Sammy?"

"It says here that you hear them speaking to you — "Sam didn't know exactly how to phrase what he was thinking. He knew hearing voices inside your mind was never a good sign. Knew that it was a possible sign of schizophrenia, but wasn't sure if such severe memory loss indicated that. "I mean is it all the time?"

"Is that like the, do I see dead people question, Haley Joel?"

"Dude, I'm being serious."

Dean raked his fingers through his hair, his gaze never leaving the road. "I dunno.Kinda feels like there is a constant buzzing going on inside of my head. You know like that droning noise locusts make."

"For how long?"

"Been quite awhile. At first I barely heard it, now it doesn't ever let up."

Sam didn't like the way that sounded. If he was hearing it all the time, it meant that whatever was happening to his brother was getting worse, and they were running out of time to stop it. "Maybe we should call someone. Maybe Bobby?"

"No. I'm not having Bobby think I'm going nuts . . . and you're not calling Dad either."

Sam drew in a sharp breath at the mention of their father. He glanced at Dean, and then quickly turned to look out the window so his brother wouldn't notice how badly the words had affected him. _How could he not remember that Dad died? _

"What is it, Sammy?"

"Nothin'."

"Don't tell me it's nothin'. I saw the look in your eyes."

"Dean, can we just not talk about this right now?" Sam said, trying to evade the question, knowing how badly it would hurt his brother to relive the moment their father had died. And how much worse it would be for him that he hadn't remembered it in the first place.

"Sam, don't make me have to look it up in that journal. I'd rather you just tell me . . . I hate looking in that thing."

_What if this makes things worse?_ _What if hearing Dad died pushes him right over the edge? _Sam's fingers trailed over the cover of the journal, wondering exactly what Dean had written about their father's death. How much guilt he felt over it, and if reading about it would cause irrevocable damage to his brother's fragile psyche. _If I don't tell him, he's just gonna look it up in his journal, and that could be even worse. _Sam finally nodded, and swivelled in his seat to look at his brother. "Dad . . . well, um . . . Dad . . . he died, Dean."

"You're lying!" The words erupted from Dean's lips with such force and anger, Sam flinched and backed away. Dean's eyes narrowed, brows pulling together as he scowled at Sam. "He's not dead. You're trying to trick me . . . trying to make me think he is. Why the hell are you doing this to me?"

Slamming on the brakes, Dean veered to the shoulder of the road, parked the car, flung open the door, and leapt out of the car, and Sam followed. _No. No. No. No. He isn't dead. He isn't. I would've remembered that. _Dean stalked back and forth, raking his fingers brusquely through his hair, trying to recall his father dying, but nothing came to him.

Tears welled in his eyes, but he stubbornly refused to shed them. _He lying. He has to be lying. He trying to trick me. Trying to make me think I'm crazy._ _He wants something from me and he's lying to get it._

"Dean." Sam watched in fear as the look in his brother's green eyes changed, taking on an almost wild and crazed appearance. "Get back in the car, dude."

"No. I wouldn't let you take me back there. I'm not gonna let you do this to me again." Dean said in a frantic voice. "You're trying to take it from me, but I'm not gonna let you."

Whatever Sam had thought to expect Dean to say, he hadn't been prepared for what had actually come out of his brother's mouth. Taking a tentative step toward his brother, Sam asked, "Do you know who I am?" The cagy look in his brother's green eyes told Sam that Dean didn't have a clue as to who he was, so he approached more cautiously. "I'm Sam, Dean . . . I'm your brother."

Dean shook his head, backing away from Sam. "No. You're the one trying to take it from me."

"Dude, I'm not trying to take anything from you," Sam tried to reason as he edged closer to Dean.

"They told me you were. Said you would lie."

Sam thought back to the last entry Dean had made in his journal. _He wants something from me. I am almost sure of it. __What the hell does he think I want from him? _Releasing the pent breath he didn't even realize he was holding, Sam took another step toward his brother. He gestured toward the Impala. "Look, let's just get back in the car, and talk about it there. I swear, whatever you think I'm trying to take from you, I'm not."

Dean jabbed his fingers into his left temple as he glared at Sam. "They're right here . . . right here . . .and they're telling me you are," he snarled through gritted teeth.

Realizing his brother was on the verge of an emotional and mental break from reality, Sam thought of the one thing that always seemed to settle Dean's nerves. He strode back to the car, and turned up the radio and blasted Metallica's _Nothing Else Matters_.

He swung back around to see a somewhat stunned expression on his brother's face. Dean glanced in the direction of the radio, and cocked a quizzical brow. After a moment of listening, Dean said, "I know this song?"

Sam heard the questioning tone in Dean's voice, and saw that his brother was mentally trying to remember the words to the song. "Yeah," Sam replied, not sure if what Dean said meant he was coming back around.

"Do I like it?" His gaze strayed from the car to Sam, and then back again.

"One of your favorites."

"What's it called?"

"Nothing Else Matters by Metallica."

Dean strode to the car, ducked inside, grabbed his journal, and searched around until he found a pen. Opening to the last page, he scrawled down some notes, and then closed the book.

Sam stared at the journal for a moment, and then looked at his brother. "Can I read what you wrote?"

Almost reluctantly, Dean handed over the journal, and then strode to the passenger's side of the car, and got in, slamming the door behind him.

Sam opened the book, flipped to the last page, and read what was written.

_There is a cold dark place in my mind. It is where my soul seeks comfort, but finds none. From shallow graves and sleepless nights I have somehow lost my way. I may not want to understand it, but as time goes on this journal will be my only way to recall what has happened and what has been lost along the way. _

_I heard a song and found my way back. The man with hazel eyes said it was called Nothing Else Matters. Said it was a favorite of mine. Don't know why I believe him, but I do. They say he wants something from me. He pretends like he doesn't. I can't let him have it. Dean_

Sam leaned against the car, pressing fingertips into his closed eyes as he thought of what his brother had written. _What the hell am I supposed to do? What if this isn't something supernatural? _

He glanced back over his shoulder at his brother, and noticed that Dean was staring at him, but Sam could tell by the look in his brother's eyes that Dean still didn't recognize him. _What if this really is some sort of mental illness? _


	3. Chapter 3

_so, wanted to get another chappy posted before i go on vacation for the weekend... hope everyone enjoys!! thanks so much for reading!! thanks so much for the awesome reviews!! bambers;)_

_Chapter Three_

"So have you ever been to Burkitsville, Indiana?" Sam asked his brother as they drove toward Rockford Illinois. He needed to understand why Dean would recall that one particular hunt. _There has to be something important about it . . . some reason that hunt stands out to him when all the others don't. _Since Dean didn't remember who Sam was at the moment, Sam figured asking about it was the only way he'd find out.

"Once," Dean replied as he traced his fingers along the edge of the side window.

"Visiting family?"

"No."

"Vacation?"

"No."

Sam was quickly losing his patience with Dean's one word responses. He could tell his brother was purposely trying to evade answering his questions. _Okay, this is gonna be harder than I thought._

"Then why did you go there?" It was direct and to the point, and Sam just hoped there was enough of the real Dean left locked away inside his mind that Sam would get the answers he needed.

"Had a job to do there." Dean's hand slid down from the window to rest on his journal.

_All right, at least now we're getting somewhere. _Casting a sideways glance at his brother, Sam asked, "So, did things go well on this job?"

"Things never go well on the job." Dean opened his journal and started jotting things down in it. "Left something behind there. Don't remember what it was."

"Maybe I can help you remember what it was." Sam searched his memory of the events in Burkitsville, although he couldn't recall much because he'd taken off to find thier father while Dean continued on with the hunt.

Dean tilted his head and stared glassy-eyed at Sam. "How could you possibly help me. I don't even know who you are."

A tight knot formed in Sam's throat, heart sinking as he heard the flat almost lifeless tone of his brother's voice as he denied knowing him. Tapping his fingers nervously on the steering wheel, he glanced over at his brother. "You know, my brother once told me that I'm pretty damn good at doing research. Maybe if you tell me about what happened there, I might be able to figure out what you left behind."

"All I can remember was it was cold and dark outside."

"So it was nighttime." _Maybe he lost something in the orchard?_

"Yeah." Dean scrawled something more down on the pages of his journal.

"Think it was something important?"

"Don't think I would've remembered leaving it behind if it wasn't."

Sam tried to think of everything his brother owned and cared about, trying to recall if Dean had ever mentioned something was missing, but couldn't think of anything. _It was cold and dark out . . . cold and dark . . . he left something behind — oh, crap. He left me behind in the middle of the night. Damn it, Dean. That wasn't your fault. I told you to go. _

He thought of the page he'd read in Dean's journal. Thought of how guilty Dean had felt for leaving him behind, and Sam worried that if he wasn't careful and said the wrong thing, he might lose his brother forever. "What if you didn't actually leave it behind? What if you still have it, but just don't realize it?"

Closing his eyes tightly, Dean pressed the palms of his hands against his temples and rubbed them up and down. "No, they said I pushed to hard. Should've understood. They said it's gone because of me."

A shiver of panic ran up Sam's spine as he noticed how close his brother was to breaking down. _Damn it, what the hell do I do. He isn't gonna believe me. If I push much harder I'm gonna lose him. _

"Dean, you wanna listen to that song again?" Sam asked, figuring it was better to back off, and try again later.

"What song?"

"The song I played for you about an hour ago. You remember it." Swallowing hard, Sam gestured toward the journal, hating the idea of having to remind his usually strong brother that he'd wrote a song down so he wouldn't forget it. "You wrote it down."

Dean flipped through the pages, until he came to it, and a weary smile lit across his features. "Yeah, I remember it now. You said I liked it."

"Yeah, that's the one," Sam said trying to match his brother's smile, but failed miserably. "One of your favorites."

Rewinding the tape, Sam pressed the button and _Nothing Else Matters_ began to play. Dean sank down in his seat, closed his eyes, and began humming along to it. When the song had finished, Sam hit rewind, and then started the song over again.

After the sixth time playing the song, Sam noticed Dean shifting in his seat to look around. His frantic gaze then settled on Sam, and Sam's stomach twisted in a tight knot, fearing what was causing his brother's sudden anxiety.

"Sammy?"

Hearing Dean say his name, Sam let out a sigh of relief. Sam took a quick glance at his brother and noticed the recognition in his eyes. _Okay, haven't lost him yet. There's still time._ "Yeah, dude?"

"I was driving," Dean stated plainly, but Sam could tell it scared the hell out of his brother not to recall why he was no longer behind the wheel.

"You said you were tired. Asked if I would drive for a while."

"I don't get tired, Sam. Not while driving."

"Well, you did."

"What time is it?" Dean abruptly asked, changing the subject.

Sam looked down at his watch, and then back up at Dean. "A little after eight."

"Sonuva – " Dean pursed his lips, and gave a curt nod. "So I've lost two hours somewhere. Tell me, dude, did I put on a good show? All freakin' buckets of crazy for ya."

Sam shook his head, trying to figure out what he should say. "It wasn't like that. I mean you were . . . ." Sam's voice abruptly died as he saw the look of fear on his brother's face.

"Did I say anything . . . do anything — hell, I don't even know what I wanna say." Dean turned in his seat to look out the window, and Sam noticed he was trembling.

"It's gonna be okay, Dean."

"You don't know that."

Placing a comforting hand on Dean's shoulder, Sam tried to think of the right words to make his brother's pain go away, but couldn't think if any. _What the hell do I say to make it all right that he couldn't remember me, and that he has voices talking to him? _His hand slid away to rest once again on the steering wheel. "Dude, I've been thinkin' about the asylum."

"An' you came up with something?"

"Well, we were separated for quite a while. Did you see anything or feel any sort of presence in that time?" The moment the words left Sam's lips, he instantly regretted them, and when Dean swung to glare at him, he felt his stomach begin to churn.

"If I could remember, we wouldn't be heading back there, would we?"

"Maybe you wrote something down about it."

Dean grabbed his book and turned to the beginning. His gaze darted back and forth across the pages, searching for anything related to the asylum. Jabbing his finger at one section, he looked up at Sam, and grinned. "Found something. Not sure how much sense it makes, but it's the only thing I've found so far."

"What does it say?" Sam leaned over, took a quick peek at the page, and then returned his attention to the road.

"Outta the corner of my eye, I see its shadow, and my mind refuses to accept it's there. It whispers things I do not understand and then is gone. After a while the memory fades, but it will not let me go."

"That's it, Dean. That has to be it." Sam smiled, feeling almost certain for the first time that they were dealing with something supernatural instead of the alternative.

Dean's grin faded to a frown. "What if it isn't? What if it's just more rambling nonsense." He turned in his seat, and looked at Sam. Shutting the journal, he said, "I mean, most of this stuff sounds like a lunatic wrote it. An' this right here sounds like more of the same."

"Dean, we deal with the supernatural, and this sounds supernatural."

"If you say so, dude." Dean settled back in his seat, and started flipping through more of the pages.

Every once in a while, Sam would hear Dean mumble something to himself, and then his brother would go silent again. As he sat there, Sam began to wonder what gave Dean the idea to write the journal to begin with. There had to be a reason why. Something that triggered the need to get everything down on paper before he lost it. _Maybe it's the journal itself that's the key, and not so much what's in it? _

He thought back to what he'd read, and couldn't figure out why things were out of order, or why Dean would mention going home after Burkitsville. _Maybe he was just trying to get things down before he forgot them. But what about the hunts he'd never been on? _The questioned churned over and over again inside his head, and suddenly an idea popped into his mind.

"What if someone who was a patient at the asylum was a hunter?"

Dean turned to look at him, a quizzical expression on his face. "What do you mean?"

"Well, the journal for one. Dad had one. So, I'm figurin' that maybe other hunters keep them too."

Biting at his lower lip, Dean contemplated what Sam had said. "They could."

"Yeah, and it would explain the hunts you've never been on." Briefly taking his gaze off the road, Sam reached over, and quickly flipped through the pages, and jabbed a finger at one of the hunts they'd never been on. He then returned his attention to the road. "Didn't think about it before, but those memories seemed clearer than all the rest."

A look of relief washed over Dean's trouble features, and then quickly slipped away. "Guess it might explain the first lines I keep writing down. Maybe some hunter went all mental and ended up at Roosevelt."

"It's as good of a reason as any," Sam said, trying to sound reassuring. He knew it still didn't explain Dean's memory loss or the voices he heard inside his mind, but it was a start.

Dean watched his brother out of the corner of his eye for a moment, and then looked down at what he'd written in his journal those two hours he couldn't recall. Seeing what he'd wrote, Dean could understand why Sam was grasping at anything that would mean Dean was going to be okay. _I had to write a freakin' song down just to remember I liked it. That must've scared the hell outta him. _

Reading further down the page, Dean frowned, his heartbeat quickening, and any relief he might've felt at the possibility of another hunter at the asylum dissipated. He scanned the passage again, wondering what he and Sam were talking about when he wrote it.

_Thinks he can help. Thinks he knows things. He is only chasing shadows, and I will not let him in. Everything fails eventually. The walls crumble. They are no more. Dean_

He slammed the journal shut, and turned to peer out into the darkening night. Everything outside the window passed by in one big blur, and Dean felt as if that was what his life was like now. It seemed like the harder he tried to hold on, the quicker it slipped through his grip. _What am I gonna do, Sammy? I don't want to forget you. God, I don't want this to happen to me. _

"Sam," Dean said, without looking at him, fearing his brother would see how terrified he was at the thought of losing himself to whatever was overtaking his mind.

"Yeah."

"Just want you to know . . . just in case — "

"Not gonna let you say anything that starts out with the words 'just in case', Dean." Dean swung to look at his brother and saw Sam shaking his head adamantly, a determined glint in his hazel eyes. "We're gonna figure this out. I'm not about to let you given in to this."

A tear slipped down Dean's cheek, and he brushed it away. "Just wanted to say that I'm glad you're my brother, Sammy. Wanted you to know that."


	4. Chapter 4

_Thanks for all the awesome reviews so far, glad everyone is enjoying!! Had an awesome camping trip, but am thrilled to be back writing!! hope everyone enjoys the chappy!! bambers;)_

_Chapter Four_

_There's something inside me that pulls between the surface_

_Consuming, confusing_

_This lack of self control I fear is never ending_

_Controlling_

_I can't seem to find myself again_

_My walls are closing in . . ._

_Crawling – Linkin Park_

Dean sat on the edge of the bed in the motel they'd rented, looking at the photos of his family that he'd gotten when they'd gone back home. He hated that Sam had to remind him where they'd come from, and hated it even more that his parents didn't look at all familiar to him. He shifted through them trying to recall a single memory of his mother or father, but nothing came to him.

Sam finished bringing in their duffels, and went and sat beside Dean. Seeing the frown crease his brother's forehead as he stared aimlessly from one picture to the next, Sam gestured to the one on top. "This one is from when Mom and Dad took us out to the zoo. Apparently, the elephants terrified me, and so you made them take us home."

Holding the picture in his shaky hand, Dean tried to recall what Sam had told him. "How do you know that? You were too young in any of these pictures to know what they were about."

"You told me." Sam took the pictures from Dean and flipped through them. "This one is your favorite picture of Mom. I've caught you looking at it dozens of times."

"Sam, don't." Dean stood and strode away from his brother, heading toward the window. Drawing back the curtains, he looked outside at his car. "Why tell me something when I'm gonna forget it anyway?"

"You don't know that you'll forget it."

"I don't? I look at those pictures and they mean nothing to me. So don't tell me I won't forget it."

Sam threw the pictures on the bedside table, and rubbed his aching temples. "Sorry, Dean. Thought they might help jar your memory. Didn't mean to make things worse."

"I know." Letting the curtains fall back in place, Dean turned to face Sam. "It's just that. . . ."

"Just what?"

"When's your birthday, Sammy?" Sam opened his mouth to respond, but before he could, Dean shook his head and said, "Should know that, right? Should at least know my own. But I don't."

"Dean — "

"You don't understand, Sam. I can't worry about the past when I'm tryin' so damn hard to hold onto what's right here in front of me." Dean stared at his brother, and in that exchange of looks, Dean knew his brother understood what he was trying to say. He pressed his palms into his throbbing temples, trying to quell the constant ache. "The nosie inside my freakin' head is so damn loud, I can't think . . . can't think."

In an instant, Sam was on his feet, heading for their first aid kit to get Dean some Tylenol. When Sam turned around to hand them to him, Dean shoved the journal into his hand.

"Read the last page."

Sam sat at the table, tore the book open to the last page, and read what it said:

_The man with hazel eyes is named Sam. He is my brother. I can trust him. Dean_

Tears welled in Sam's eyes, and he quickly brushed them away so Dean wouldn't see. A fear crept into his heart unlike anything he'd ever experienced, and it absolutely terrified him. To hear the noise was so loud inside Dean's head, and to see that Dean had to write about him to remember who he was, was almost too much to accept. _God, I can't let this happen to him. There has to be something I can do._

"Figured if I wrote it down in my own handwriting, next time you can just show it to me."

To listen to Dean admit that was a stunning blow, and Sam didn't know how to react. He wanted to comfort his brother, but knew Dean would hate the chick-flick moment. That was if he remembered he hated chick-flick moments.

Scrubbing his hand through his thick shaggy hair, Sam glanced around the room, trying to figure out what he should do next. With Dean's memories being shaky at best, Sam felt as if they were scrabbling just to keep up with his brother's next imminent episode, and worried that the next time Dean might not make his way back. If he didn't figure out something soon the brother who had taken care of him, watched out for him, had been like a parent to him, would be lost to him forever. And if that happened, Sam knew he would be just as lost as Dean was now.

"Does this place look familiar to you?" Sam asked, hoping that staying in same motel room as last time they were in Rockford, Illinois, Dean might remember something.

Dean looked around the room at the two double beds with gaudy red bedspreads. Between the beds was a small bedside table. A brass lamp with a dingy looking cream colored shade, sat on a equally dingy looking lace doily From there his gaze strayed to another table in the far corner with another cheap looking lamp sitting on it. Slowly he took in the rest of the room, hoping he could recall something, knowing from his brother's expression that this room should be familiar to him.

For a moment, Dean was tempted to lie, tempted to give his brother the answer he was desperately seeking, knowing how hard this was for Sam to accept. But he couldn't do it.

"No." Dean saw the flicker of sadness in his brother's eyes, and instantly wished he'd went with his first impulse to save Sam from more pain.

"That's okay," Sam said as he lowered his head to study the journal some more. "Not surprised that you wouldn't. We've stayed in so many motels, they all start to look the same."

"Sam." Dean watched as his brother poured over the book, and then grabbed the other two and spread them out across the table. "Sammy," he called to his brother again, knowing Sam was deliberately avoiding eye contact.

"Huh?" Sam asked, without glancing up at him. His fingers trailed over the pages of the first journal, and then he looked at another book trying to find the connections between them.

"I know you thought I should remember this place . . . you obviously do."

"Said it wasn't a big deal." Sam continued on with his research, but his voice became more and more strained as he said each word.

"Damn it, Sammy, would you just look at me for a second."

When Sam still refused to glance up at him, Dean stormed to the table, flung out his arm and swatted the books aside, sending them scattering to the floor. A few loose pages tore free from the books and floated soundlessly to the ground.

"Was tryin' to do some research." Reluctantly, Sam looked in his direction, and then just as quickly lowered his head again. Getting off his chair, Sam squat and started picking up the journals and pages that had torn free.

"I don't need you researchin' me like I'm some damn hunt you're about to go on." Dean kicked one of the books across the room in aggravation, and it hit the wall with a dull thud.

"The answer has to be in these journals somewhere, an' I'm not stopping till I find it."

Even in his anger, Dean had to admire his brother's determination even if he was worried that there was nothing Sam could do to help him. Although he'd never been one for research himself, Dean had scoured the pages himself before Sam had found out, and couldn't find one thing pointing to something supernatural. But if there was one, Dean needed to believe Sam would find it.

_But what if Sam can't find anything?_ That thought, along with many others, raced through Dean's mind like a fast moving poison, consuming him. _What if there's nothing to look for? I didn't find anything._

"Maybe there isn't an answer," Dean said in an unusually quiet tone. "Maybe this is just how things are."

Craning his neck, Sam glanced up at him, and held his gaze. "Don't even think that. This isn't how things are meant to be." His voice was thick and tainted with the emotions he was trying so desperately to hide from Dean. "We'll go to the asylum tonight after I check out a few more things. The answers are there, I know they are."

Licking his lips, Dean cleared his throat and swallowed back the painful lump that had settled there. He needed to get away from Sam. Needed to clear his head. Hitching a thumb toward the door, he muttered, "Gonna go get some coffee, want something?"

"You can't." Sam was on his feet in a shot. The papers he held in a loose grip fell from his hands as he tried to stop Dean from leaving. "What if — "

"There's a diner right down the road, think I can make it there by myself." Dean had a hard time keeping the bitterness from his voice at his brother treating him like he was some sort of Alzheimer's victim.

"I'll go." Grabbing his hoodie, Sam headed toward the door, but Dean stepped in front of him, blocking his path.

"Said I was going."

"Then I'll go with you," Sam said, undeterred.

Dean understood his brother's fears, felt them himself. But if he couldn't do something as simple as going out for coffee by himself, it was like admitting that what was happening to him was winning, taking over his life, and Dean couldn't stomach that thought. "Going alone."

Sam stared at him defiantly for a moment, then hurried to the table, grabbed a pen, ripped a piece of paper out of the journal in his hand, and brought them back to Dean. "Room number nine, Melbourne Motel, South Lyford Road. Write it down."

"What do you want me to do, pin it to my freakin' shirt. . . ." Dean's voice trailed away as he saw the pleading look in his brother's eyes. Reluctantly, he snatched the pen and paper from Sam, and wrote it down. Stuffing the paper in the pocket of his jeans, Dean strode out the door without saying another word.

Sam walked to the window, and peered out through the curtains. The moment the Impala pulled away, Sam strode out the door, and headed toward a black Cavalier parked beside the motel sign. Breaking into the car, he hot-wired it, and pulled out of the parking lot, racing after his brother, determined not to lose him.

Yanking his cell out of his pocket, Sam scrolled down the list of names, found Bobby's and hit the button. After the third ring, Bobby answered.

"Hello."

"Bobby, it's Sam. Need some information about the Roosevelt Asylum." Sam hesitated for a second, and then added, "And I don't want Dean to know I called you." Noticing his brother's car at a stoplight, Sam pulled to the shoulder of the road, and waited until he saw the car speed away toward the diner.

"Roosevelt Asylum?" Bobby questioned, and Sam could almost picture him scrubbing his hand across his breaded face. "Why don't ya want Dean to know about it?"

"Can't tell you," Sam said as he took a right turn where he'd seen Dean take one. He glanced through the rearview mirror at the diner Dean had told him he was going to. _Where the hell is he going? _He returned his sights to the shining black Impala several car lengths in front of him. Fearing his brother had forgotten where he was going, Sam stepped on the gas pedal.

"What do you need to know?"

"If a hunter ever was committed there, and if so, did he die there."

Bobby was quiet for a few seconds, and then said in a deep concerned voice, "Yeah, there was one. Your Dad told me about him once."

A feeling of immense relief washed over Sam hearing that he'd been right. If there had been another hunter at Roosevelt, then it was possible that whatever was happening to Dean was because of him. "Who was he?"

"Seems as I recall from what your Dad said, his name was Bo. Not sure what his last name was, but you should be able to dig it up."

Following his brother, Sam took a quick left onto a familiar road. _Damn it, what the hell is he thinking heading there alone? _

"Why was he in the asylum?" Sam veered to the shoulder of the road, parked the car, and watched as his brother got out of the Impala. Dean stood in front of the Roosevelt Asylum for several minutes, staring up at the huge gray stone building. His brother glanced around briefly and then scaled the tall fence, leapt down and headed inside.

"Real bad guy. Seems as if he lost his mind, and set about torturing innocent victims."

"So did my Dad know him?"

"No, this happened before your father started huntin'."

Sam stepped out of car, and stalked toward the asylum, glancing back over his shoulder to make sure no one was watching him. "And he killed all his victims?"

"No." Bobby was silent again, and Sam knew that whatever Bo had done to his victims it must've been pretty bad. "No one knows how he did it, but he drove them all insane."

"Insane?" Sam repeated, thinking of Dean. "Is that even possible?" He then thought of what Doctor Ellicott had done to him, and how he'd shot Dean with rock salt while at the Roosevelt Asylum, and had his answer. "What do you mean by insane?"

"Lost all their memories, kept insane journals, heard voices inside their heads, full on crazy. Some of them even ended up in Roosevelt along with Bo."

Sam halted in his steps, stomach churning as he listened to Bobby describe the same thing that was happening to Dean. "Did my Dad ever mention if any of these people regained their sanity?"

"Best I can recall, none of them ever did. Your father researched it pretty thoroughly, and from what he gathered, Bo and at least a few of the people he tortured died in the riot."

Knees buckling, Sam leaned against the fence for support. If what Bobby said was true, and he had no doubt it was if his father had researched it, Dean was quickly running out of time. If he couldn't solve this soon, his brother would be lost to him forever. That thought had him hanging up the phone without so much as a goodbye, and climbing the fence as fast as he could.

He rushed inside the asylum, looking around for where his brother might've gone. Stale, musty air greeted him as he entered, and he recalled the last time they were there. It looked exactly the same. Dim light filtered into the darkened room, and he could still make out the graffiti on the plain gray walls. The room was still cluttered with strange cruel looking medical devises.

Grim recollections of Dean joking about Jack Nicholson in _One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest _and _The Shining _came to mind. Remembering how angry he'd been at Dean as he made light of their father not being there, Sam felt his stomach clench even tighter. _I was so freakin' busy being pissed at him, I must've failed to notice something important. God, this is all my fault. _

He was about to head for the hidden room in the basement where Doctor Ellicott had been, when he heard an anguished cry of pain, and knew instantly it was coming from one of the upper level rooms.

"Dean!" he hollered, running for the stairs, his heart hammering away inside his chest.


	5. Chapter 5

_so, another chappy...hope everyone enjoys!! thanks for reading and for the awesome reviews!!! bambers;)_

_Chapter Five_

_Discomfort, endlessly has pulled itself upon me_

_Distracting, reacting_

_Against my will I stand beside my own reflection_

_It's haunting how I can't seem_

_To find myself again_

_My walls are closing in . . . _

_Crawling –Linkin Park_

Dean made his way to the upper floors of the asylum, not exactly sure where he was headed, but seemed to be drawn up there by some inexplicable force. The voices inside his mind grew more intense, one outshining the others. He couldn't make out what it was saying, but it was angry, furious, in fact, and Dean's stomach churned violently in protest as the voice drummed relentlessly inside his head.

In a pain-filled haze, he drifted aimlessly down the long corridor. At the far end of the hallway, he entered a room, and the door slammed shut behind him, but he scarcely noticed. Golden light shone through the broken barred windows, reflecting on a strangely ornate gilded mirror.

Sidestepping a rotting mattress, broken chairs, and scraps of broken wood, Dean trudged to the mirror.

_You shall not like what you see. _A clear feminine voice cut through all the rambling voices inside his mind. _Look upon it, and you shall be lost. But, not to look would be just as deadly._

Glancing into the mirror, Dean saw the windows behind him, graffiti painted on the crumbling walls, and the railing of the old bed, but he couldn't see his own reflection. Touching the cool glass with trembling fingers, he searched deeper, but still could not see himself.

_The mirror does not lie. You are nothing. A poor man's shadow at best. _

"No," Dean shook his head, hearing all the voices converge, echoing each other, and growing to a fervent level. "That's not true."

_You're pathetic. You know it's true. Even your own brother said it. _

The words reverberated off the walls, and Dean dug his fingertips into his ears trying desperately to block out the sound, to no avail.

_I am normal. I'm just telling the truth for the first time. I mean why are we even here? Cuz' you're following Dad's orders like a good little soldier? Cuz' you always do what he says without question? Are you that desperate for his approval? That's the difference between you and me, I have a mind of my own, I'm not pathetic like you._

Sam's dispassionate voice joined the others, followed by the ominous clicking of a gun. The room shook with the intensity of the noise. Jagged pieces of glass from the window, fell to the floor and shattered.

Closing his eyes tightly, Dean pressed his hands against the sides of his face, fingers gripping his short cropped hair. "Stop it . . . Stop . . . Can't take it."

_Truth always hurts. It consumes . . . devours._

"Not . . . true."

_Walls crumble. Nothing is left. Better not to be at all._

"No." Dean slammed his fist into the mirror repeatedly, shattering it. He drew his hand back to strike again, and noticed shards of glass sticking out of his bloodied knuckles. A cry of pain escaped his lips, yet he couldn't stop himself from smashing his hand into the mirror again, but the voices would not fade.

_He will try and take it from you. You cannot let him. He will lie._

Dean crumpled to the ground, and rocked back and forth, mumbling the words over and over again.

XxXxXxXxXxXxX

Sam rushed down the corridor, checking each room for his brother. "Dean! Where the hell are you?"

Reaching the end of the hallway, Sam searched the room on the right side, found nothing and then opened the door on the left and peered inside. A low muffled cry met his ears, and he sought out the sound, finding his brother curled up on the ground, rocking, and muttering to himself. Dean's hands were bunched in tight fists at the sides of his head, and Sam noticed blood dripping from one of them.

Scrubbing his hand across his face, Sam stood, unsure what he should do. Taking a tentative step into the room, Sam quietly called out to him, fearing if he raised his voice, he might make matters worse. "Dean." When his brother didn't respond, Sam took another step, and tried again. "Hey there, Dean. Was lookin everywhere for you."

"The mirror . . . voices . . . broke it, but they won't go away . . . won't go away." The words tumbled off Dean's tongue at a chaotic desperate pace as he shook his head, blinking rapidly. "Have to make it stop . . . can't make it stop."

Sam glanced around the room, but didn't see any mirrors. "Mirror?" He looked again, and still couldn't find one amongst all the garbage strewn around the room. "There's no mirror in here." The moment he said the words, Sam regretted it as his brother's head shot up, and he glared wildly at Sam.

"It's right there . . . right there. On the wall . . . said you would lie . . .trying to trick me . . . trying to take it from me, but I won't let you." Dean clenched his teeth, and rocked back and forth at a more frantic pace, mumbling to himself.

Behind where Dean was sitting, Sam noticed blood trailing down the wall, and realized his brother had struck it with his fist, trying to break the imaginary mirror. Taking a few more steps, Sam crouched beside him, and cautiously placed a hand on Dean's trembling shoulder. "It's okay, Dean. I was wrong. I can see it now." He hated having to lie to his brother, and it broke his heart to see the lost look and mistrust in his brother's crazed green eyes. "Why don't you let me take you home. Need to take care of that hand."

"No. Can't go with you." Dean squinched his eyes, pressing his palms into his temple. "Liar . . . pathetic . . . It's the middle of the night, I'm taking off, I'll leave your ass . . . you hear me . . . that's what I want you to do. . . . shouldn't have let him go."

Sam recalled the night on the way to Burkitsville, the argument they'd had, his leaving Dean, and it tore a hole in Sam's heart. "Hey, Dean, I'm right here, and I'm not going anywhere. You and me, like always."

"Hate me that much . . . gonna kill me . . . kill your own brother . . . pull the trigger . . . gun clicking repeatedly . . .Truth always hurts. Consumes . . . devours." Dean shrugged Sam's hand away and curled up into a tight ball, rocking relentlessly. "Walls crumble. Nothing left. Better not to be at all."

Dean's last word terrified him. They sounded so final. Sounded as if he was close to giving up and giving in to whatever was torturing his mind. Tears welled in Sam's eyes, having to see his brother in so much pain, and not knowing how to help him. Swallowing hard, Sam opened his mouth to say something, anything to make things better, struggled to find the right words, and closed his mouth again.

"Mirrors don't lie . . . they see things . . . know things." Dean glanced up at Sam, eyes accusing. "Liar. You can't take it from me . . . I won't let you."

"Please, Dean, let me take you outta here. Let me take you back to the motel," Sam said, beseechingly, knowing his brother was very close to losing his mind. "I can fix your hand, and you can write in your journal. Get it all down so you don't forget." It tore at him to have to use the journal as a bargaining chip, knowing how much Dean hated it, but he didn't know what else to say.

"My journal . . . you stole my journals. Want them back. Need to get it down. Write it down." Before Sam had a chance to react, Dean's arm snaked out, and he grabbed hold of Sam's collar, twisting the soft material in his steely grip. "Give them back to me. Give them now, or I swear to God, I'll kill you."

Thinking quickly, Sam said, "They're in the Impala. Outside. I'll take you to them."

"Impala?"

Sam saw the confusion register on his brother's features. "Your car. It's parked outside."

"Don't have a car. Tryin' to trick me . . . confuse me. They told me you would."

Dean abruptly released Sam, and leapt to his feet. With fingers interlaced behind the back of his head, Dean stalked back and forth, mumbling to himself. He would ask strange meaningless questions, and then answer them in the same manner.

A shiver of fear ran up the length of Sam's spine as he listened intently to his brother's crazed ranting, hoping something would make sense. He didn't know what to do. Normally if he wanted Dean to do something he didn't want to do, Sam could give him a pleading look, and eventually his brother would wear down, and give in. But now, his brother was so lost in his own mind, nothing Sam tried to do was working.

Fearing that if he didn't get him out of the asylum soon, Dean's break from reality would become permanent, Sam strode to the door, calling back over his shoulder, "I took it from you, Dean. Took it, and I'm never giving it back."

Dean's stopped his pacing, and glared at Sam, a wicked gleam in his green eyes. "Give it back you sonuvabitch."

Sam swung to face him, and shook his head, pursing his lips. "Not a chance in hell. It's mine now, and I'll be damned if you ever get it back."

Dean's expression turned deadly, his fists clenching. "I'll kill you," he growled in anger.

"Have to catch me first." Sam darted out the entrance, and raced down the corridor, nearly tripping over debris cluttering the floor. Listening to hear if his brother was following, Sam let out a sigh of relief when he heard rapid footsteps close behind him.

"Never was quick enough, Dean. Always was faster than you," Sam taunted as he grabbed hold of the banister, and made a speedy descent down the flight of stairs. He hated tricking his brother, hated knowing it was the only way to make him leave, but he'd run out of options.

Rounding the next flight of step, Sam chanced a look back, and saw his brother rushing down the stairs, taking them two at a time. The cold calculating look in his brother's eyes terrified Sam, and he worried that he might've pushed too hard, and made matters even worse, but knew it was too late to stop what he'd started.

"What's the matter, Dean? Slowing up a bit, guess you must not want it back."

At the bottom of the stairs, Sam hesitated for a moment, checking to make sure Dean wasn't too far behind. He didn't want to lose him in the maze of lower level hallways. The glint of steel caught Sam's eye, and he dove out of the way as the sound of gunfire echoed through the asylum.

"You don't have to die, just give it back," Dean threatened in a low ominous tone.

"Don't have it," Sam shouted, ducking as another bullet struck the wall just above his head.

"Liar."

Heart hammering in his chest, Sam tore off down the hallway at breakneck speed. "I swear, I don't have it, Dean." Hearing gunfire again, Sam veered off into a small room, just as the bullet ricocheted off the wall. Sparks flew and bits of plasters broke free and scattered to the floor a few inches from where Sam had been a moment before.

Peering out into the corridor, Sam saw Dean stalking toward the door, gun raised, finger on the trigger, and knew he couldn't risk trying to escape by the way he'd just come in from. "Dean, stop this. I don't have anything of yours," he shouted, before ducking back inside for cover.

Sam frantically searched for a place to hide. Finding nothing more in the room then a small closet and an overturned bed, Sam rushed to the window, and yanked on the metal bars, trying desperately to loosen them. They wouldn't budge.

"Damn freakin' place is crumbling to the ground, but good to know no ones gonna break in through the windows."

Swinging around, Sam was about to hide in the closet, when he saw his brother standing in the doorway with his gun aimed directly at Sam's chest. Sam backed up against the wall, and slid to the side, watching fearfully as his brother retrained his sights on him. Sam raised his arms in front of himself defensively.

"You gonna kill me, Dean? You really think you can kill your own brother?" he tried to reason.

Dean stared at him for a moment, but Sam could tell he wasn't really seeing him, so lost to whatever had taken over his mind. He raised the gun a little higher, face twisting with rage. "Yeah, I think I can."


	6. Chapter 6

_so another chappy, this one is a bit longer so it took a little longer to write...thanks for reading, and for all the awesome reviews so far, so glad everyone is enjoying cause this has been my favorite story to write so far!! if you like it, please review, i live for them!! thanks again for reading!! bambers;)_

_Chapter Six_

_Without a sense of confidence_

_I'm convinced that there's just_

_Too much pressure to take_

_I've felt this way before_

_So insecure_

_Crawling in my skin _

_These wounds, they will not heal_

_Fear is how I fall_

_Confusing what is real . . . _

_Crawling –Linkin Park_

Sam couldn't believe what he was hearing. Couldn't believe his brother would ever consider shooting him, no matter what the circumstance. Trembling, he recalled a time not so long ago when the tables were turned, and he was the one holding the gun as his brother lay helpless on the ground of the asylum. Although, thankfully at that time the gun had not been loaded.

_So what are you gonna do, huh, you gonna kill me? Well, then here, let me make it easier for you. Go on, take it. Real bullets are gonna work a helluva lot better than rock salt. Take it! Do you hate me that much? Do you think you can kill your own brother? Then go ahead, pull the trigger. . . . Do it! _

The memory of the last time they were at the asylum flooded Sam's mind with startling clarity. Sam could almost hear the clicking of the gun as he'd repeatedly pulled the trigger . . . could feel the heartbreak in Dean's voice when he asked Sam if he hated him that much.

They'd never spoken of it. Brushed it aside as if it didn't matter. It was easier that way, and truthfully, Sam didn't want to discuss it, was ashamed of what he'd done. But, maybe that was part of the problem, part of whatever was tearing his brother's mind to pieces. It was the Winchester way not to discuss things, and in some ironically twisted way, it almost felt like justice that the situation was now reversed.

Dean had been smart enough to remove the bullets, but Sam hadn't even considered the danger of keeping loaded weapons around his brother while he was mentally unstable. In truth, he hadn't wanted to consider that things would get this bad. He'd actually believed he could figure out what was wrong, and everything would go back to normal.

Sizing up his options, Sam quickly realized he really didn't have any. He was too far way from Dean to try and wrestle the gun away from him before Dean fired, and trying to talk rationally to him was also out of the question. Trapped in the small room with nothing but the overturned bed, he didn't even have the option of trying to distract Dean by throwing something at him.

"Dean, I'm unarmed," he began, knowing it was pretty much useless, but had to try, "And I swear to God, I didn't take anything from you. Please, you gotta believe me."

His brother stood unmoving, the muscle in his cheek jerking erratically. The gun in his hand shook as he kept it aimed on Sam's chest. "Liar." Dean cringed, body trembling as he drew his free hand up to cover his ear, fingers curling tightly around it. "They said you would lie. Said you would."

"What would I take from you. You're my brother." Still holding his arms out in front of himself, Sam took a slow measured step toward his brother.

The movement was not lost on his brother even in his delirium. Quickly redirecting his aim, Dean fired. Before Sam had a chance to react, the bullet whizzed by him, cutting into his upper arm then lodging in the wall behind him. His body jerked backwards, a hiss of pain escaping his lips as he hastily covered the wound with his hand, blood seeping between his fingers.

"Take another step and it will be your last."

Sam knew he was running out of time, knew he needed to try something else before Dean fired his weapon again. "The last time we were here — "

"Never here before . . . tryin' to mess me up. Tryin' to trick me. Would remember this."

"You were here, Dean," Sam rushed on ahead, hoping he was doing the right thing. "We both were, and I said some things . . . did some things I truly regret. I let them slide under the rug because I felt too guilty to talk about them."

Dean's hand relaxed on the gun for a moment, his face softening a bit, and Sam thought he might've been getting through to him. But, in a blink of an eye, Dean's features hardened again, his fingers tightening around the gun. "Can't listen to you . . . mirrors don't lie . . . they know everything. See everything."

"Damn it, Dean, listen to me. I shot you with rock salt. Said things in anger I didn't mean. Called you pathetic. God, I wish I could take it back. Wish we'd never come here in the first place. But I can't take it back, can't take the pain I caused you away, but I'm so goddamn sorry. You have no idea how sorry."

"Pathetic." A deep frown creased Dean's forehead, eyes narrowing. "Said I was pathetic." Wincing, Dean tilted his head sideways, blinking hard as he gripped onto his ear even tighter. "All said it. Screaming it in my ears. Can't make it go away."

Dean squinched his eyes as he cried out, "Gawww . . . why won't it stop . . . just want it to go away." Dropping to his knees, Dean's gun fell from his hand, clattering to the ground as he buried his head in his arms, and leaned forward curling into a tight ball. "Please, make it stop. Can't take it."

"Dean." Sam rushed to his brother, and knelt beside him. Not about to take any chances, he snatched the .45 off the ground, pocketed it, and then wrapped his arm around Dean's shoulders. "It's gonna be okay, Dean. I'm gonna take care of everything. Gonna make it go away, I swear to you I will."

"No. Can't help . . . their inside my brain . . . crawling beneath my skin . . . can feel them. Like bugs . . . like bugs."

Sam watched in horror as his brother started clawing at his own chest with his fingernails, tugging at his t-shirt to get to the skin underneath it. Sam grabbed his wrists, and held them in a firm grasp. Dean glanced up at him, tears shimmered in his eyes as he struggled to break free, and Sam could tell he had no idea who he was or what was going on.

"Please, Dean, just let me take you outta here. Let me take you back to the motel," Sam said in a quiet voice, trying not to frighten his brother any more than he already was. At the look of mistrust in his brother's eyes, Sam added, "Just want to help you. This place is killing you."

Looking frantically around the room as if searching for something Sam could not see, Dean's terrified gaze finally settle on him. "Wanna leave . . . wanna go. They won't let me. My fault. All my fault."

"What's your fault?"

"Everyone. Everything." Dean blinked hard, and the looked wildly about the room again. "All of it. My fault. Should've known better. Shouldn't have pushed so hard. People die . . . they die and it's my fault. They'll never let me go."

"It's not your fault, Dean. Nothing is your fault," Sam tried to reassure, but wasn't even sure his brother was hearing him. "You've helped so many people. Saved so many lives. You're the best person I know."

Breaking free of Sam's hold on him, Dean gripped onto his flannel, and yanked Sam toward him. His face twisted in torment as he looked at Sam. "Their inside my skin. Eating away at my flesh. Can feel them. Bugs."

Dean abruptly released him, and shot backwards, butting up against the chipping plaster wall. Squirming around, Dean swatted at his head and arms. "Get them off me. Get 'em off. All over me." He clawed at his face, leaving a bloodied trail down his cheeks. "Oh God, get 'em off. They're everywhere."

"Dean, stop it." On his feet in an instant, Sam rushed to his brother's side. He tried to grasp his brother's wildly thrashing arms, but couldn't get a firm enough hold on them.

Sam knew what he had to do, knew it was the only way to calm Dean down, but he hated the idea of it. "There's nothing on you, Dean. I swear there isn't. Please stop," he begged, making one last attempt to stop him before resorting to harsher methods.

Dean wasn't listening, was too lost to whatever new form of torture his mind was playing on him now. He didn't even seem to realize Sam was there anymore.

Hesitating a few seconds longer, Sam finally drew back his fist and slammed it into the side of Dean's face with all the strength he possessed. The force of the blow sent his brother flying sideways. Normally, it might not have been enough to knock his brother unconscious, but in his weakened state of mind, it worked just the way Sam had hoped it would.

Quickly checking Dean over to make sure he was okay, Sam uttered, "Sorry about that Dean. It was the only thing I could think to do."

Without giving it a second thought, Sam hauled his brother to his feet, wrapped his arm around Dean's waist, and dragged him toward the entrance of the asylum. "I'll get you outta here, and you'll be better. You'll see, you will," he said, more to reassure himself that things would be okay then to Dean who couldn't really hear him anyway. "Not gonna lose you to this. Not gonna let it beat you."

XxXxXxXxXxXxX

Dean awoke not knowing where he was or why he had a splitting headache. Grabbing the side of his face, he moved his aching jaw back and forth as he tried to recall what had happened. His fingers slowly trailed across several welts on his cheeks, but was uncertain how they'd gotten there.

Blinking hard, Dean adjusted his blurred vision to the dim light of the room. Slowly, he turned on his side, and propped himself up on his elbow, searching around the room for his brother. "Sammy," he called out, his voice sounding strange to his own ears.

The moment Sam heard his voice, he was off his chair and at Dean's side in an instant. Before Sam had a chance to hide it, Dean noticed the look of relief that flooded his worried features at the sound of Dean calling to him.

"What happened, Sam?" Dean had a feeling things had gotten much worse, but couldn't recall what he might've done. When Sam failed to make eye contact with him, he was sure of it.

"Nothin."

"Don't lie to me. I need to know what I did."

"It's nothing, Dean." Sam lowered his head so Dean couldn't see the look on his face, but before he did, Dean noticed a look of sadness cross his features. "You hungry. I stopped and got some burgers on the way back here. Thought you might want something to eat."

Dean sat up in bed, and leaned against the backboard. "Don't change the subject. It must've been pretty bad if you refuse to talk about it." Rubbing his jaw, Dean stared at his brother for a moment, silently willing Sam to look at him."You gotta tell me. I have to know what I did."

After several long moments, Sam finally gave in. "You went to the asylum alone."

Dean nodded in understanding, starting to realize what had Sam so upset. "An' what did I do while I was there?"

"Dean, we really don't need to talk about this. You're okay now and that's all that matters."

"No, it's not." Dean brusquely raked his hand through his hair, not knowing where to begin, or even what he wanted to say, but he pushed forward anyway. "Look, I'm losing everything, Sammy. I need to know, need to be able to write it down. Know it must've been pretty bad, but you gotta tell me."

Sam swallowed hard, pursed his lips, and gestured to Dean's hand. Dean glanced at it, and for the first time noticed it was bandaged.

"Found you on the ground, your knuckles all torn up and bleeding." Sam swallowed again, and turned his back on Dean. "Said you were trying to break the mirror so the voices would stop."

"So I broke some mirror?" Dean asked, a quizzical expression on his face. When Sam remained quiet, he prompted, "Come on, Sam, just tell me."

Sam let out a deep sigh, his shoulders sagging. "There wasn't any mirror."

Dean didn't like the idea that he was breaking imaginary mirrors, but didn't want to let on how much it bothered him. He couldn't have Sam any more worried than he already was now. "Just a mirror, not bad. At least I didn't go all Amityville Horror on you." he chuckled wryly, but the laughter died on his lips when Sam turned to look at him with tears brimming in his eyes.

He gave a curt nod, lips forming a grim line as he realized breaking imaginary mirrors was the least of his problems. "What else, Sam?"

"Dean, please, can't we just let this go. You don't need to write it all down."

"I tried to hurt you, didn't I?" Dean quickly looked his brother over, searching for any apparent injuries, and breathed a sigh of relief when he didn't find any.

"Yeah," Sam said, deliberately not elaborating on the details, and it had Dean checking him over again to see if there was something he might've missed.

"Didn't hurt you, did I?" he asked, still not finding anything.

A deep sigh escaped Sam's lips. "Yeah," he reluctantly admitted. "Trapped me in a room,

and. . . . " his voice trailed off as he glanced down at his arm. "You had your gun with you. It was all my fault, Dean. I didn't think to lock the weapons up," he hurriedly added, trying to revert the blame onto himself instead of Dean.

"Let me see your arm, Sam."

"It's just a flesh wound. Doesn't even hurt anymore." Sam tried to lie, but Dean saw through his thinly veiled facade. "Said it was my fault. Can't we just leave it at that."

"I wanna see it. Don't make me hurt you more just to get a look at it."

Reluctantly, Sam yanked off his flannel, and rolled up the sleeve of his t-shirt. Blood was soaking through the gauze bandages he'd wrapped around the wound, a trail of blood snaking down his arm. "Couldn't really stitch it up myself, so I butterflied it the best I could." Sam shrugged, trying to make light of the injury. "It's really not so bad."

"Damn it, why didn't you tell me right away."

Dean leapt to his feet, stalked to their first aid kit, grabbed it, and headed back to where Sam was sitting. Unwrapping the bandage, Dean sucked in his breath as he saw the deep gouge on the side of Sam's biceps. Blood flowed freely from the wound once the bandage had been removed, and Dean was forced to work quickly to clean and stitch it up. Sam winced, and every once in a while, a low hiss escaped his lips as Dean drew the needle through his skin.

"Almost done, Sammy, just a few more stitches and it should be closed." When he was finished, Dean rewrapped Sam's arm with clean bandages, and returned the medical supplies back to the kit. "Next time you get hurt and don't tell me about it, I'm gonna have to kill you." He laughed nervously, trying to break some of the mounting tension he was feeling inside.

Throwing the first aid kit down on the bedside table, Dean turned to look at his brother. The voices inside his mind were growing again to an unbearable level, and he didn't know how much longer he was going to be able to think clearly. He had to say something now or risk never getting the chance. The problem was everything he thought to say sounded stupid and fell into the category of chick-flick moments, and he really didn't want his brother's last memories of him as a normal person to be full of flowery declarations. It just wasn't him, and Sam would know it.

"My gun. Where is it?" he said, instead of saying what he really wanted to say.

"Why?"

Dean could hear the concern edging into his brother's voice as he spoke and saw the look of fear his little brother tried to hide. "Wanted to make sure I couldn't get to it . . . you know, just incase."

"It's locked up in the Impala." Sam lowered his head. "Hid the keys," he mumbled, dejectedly.

Hearing the sadness in his brother's voice and seeing how Sam couldn't hold his gaze, Dean could tell it was killing him to have to admit what he'd done.

"It's okay, Sammy. I would've done the same." Dean needed Sam to understand he didn't blame him for what was happening to him, nor did he blame Sam for trying to protect himself from him either.

Dropping down on his bed, Dean reached under his pillow, and pulled out his favorite knife he'd always kept there for protection. He couldn't have it around knowing he might use it against Sam when the voices reached a desperate level again. "Here. Lock this up with the rest of the stuff."

"Dean, I don't — "

"Take it, Sammy. It's only a knife. Would rather it be gone then to possibly hurt you with it later."

He thrust out his hand, and Sam reluctantly took the weapon from him.

"I'll give it back to you when . . . I'll give it back to you."

Dean thought it was highly doubtful he'd ever see his knife again, and was even more doubtful that he would recall giving it away to Sam, but he couldn't let his brother see how badly it was tearing him apart to give over control of his own life.

Tilting his head to the side, he brushed away the tears brimming in his eyes so Sam couldn't see them, then turned to look at his brother, a fake smile plastered to his face. "Better take care of it, Sammy, cause if it has one nick in it when I get it back, you're in deep shit."


	7. Chapter 7

_So another chappy posted!! now to get back to Charlie and Sam buried underground...thanks for reading will update soon as this story just doesn't want to wait!! thanks for the awesome reviews!! thay are golden!! bambers;)_

_Chapter Seven_

"Find anything yet, Sammy?" Dean asked as he pushed aside his half-eaten burger, his stomach churning too violently to down another bite.

Sam glanced over the top from his computer at Dean, and then lowered his head. "Not much. Found some information about the patients who stayed there. Only one name of real interest though. Bo Raskins," Sam said, careful not to give away the fact that he'd gotten the information from Bobby, knowing how angry Dean would be. "He was one of the last patients admitted to Roosevelt."

"And why," Dean hesitated just long enough to have Sam look in his direction again, "An' why. . . ."

Dean's voice trailed off again, and Sam could tell he was trying his damnedest to recall what they's been talking about. After a few agonizing moments of silently praying Dean would remember on his own, Sam finally prompted, "Bo's of interested because why he was sent there."

"Would've remembered it, Sammy," Dean snapped harshly. "Just needed a few . . . never mind. How the hell would you understand anyway." He stood and paced the small expanse of the room, mumbling to himself.

"I was just trying to — "

"Don't need your help." Dean stalked to the table, snatched one of his journals off of it, and shoved it in Sam's face. "That's what I have these damn things for. Whole freakin' lot of help they are, too. About as useless as that damn computer."

"Sorry, Dean. Was just . . . just thought maybe . . . don't know what to say. I'm trying my best to find an answer, I just need a little more time."

"Don't have time. Not for computers or stupid journals that are filled with meaningless garbage. Everything's slipping away." Dean's voice broke on the last words, and he quickly turned away so Sam wouldn't see how terrified he was.

Dean didn't mean to be taking his anger out on his brother, knew it wasn't his fault, but the longer it took to find answers meant there probably wasn't any to find. He knew if Sam couldn't find a solution before it was too late he would forevermore blame himself, and that hurt Dean almost as much as knowing he soon wouldn't even remember his brother.

He didn't want Sam to have to be straddled with having to take care of him in the eventuality, knew he was dangerous not only to himself, but others as well. Trouble was, he didn't know how to broach the subject that weighed heavily upon his mind in lucid moments. Dean was absolutely certain Sam would argue with his decision. Hell, he hated the idea himself, but he couldn't let that keep him from doing what was right, especially if it meant Sam was protected from being hurt by him again.

"Been givin' it a lot of thought, Sam, and when I . . . when things get real bad again," Dean's voice faltered, an uncomfortable knot forming in his throat. Clearing it, he continued, "When things get real bad, I want you to have me committed."

Hearing that, Sam was on his feet so fast, the chair he was sitting on flew backwards and hit into the wall with a loud bang. He stormed to his brother, grabbed his arm, and swung Dean to face him. "Not gonna do that. You hear me? Not gonna let you give up. No matter what, we stay together . . . no matter what."

"I'm not asking you, Sammy. I'm telling you."

Sam shook his head. "No, I won't do it."

"What are you gonna do? Watch me every second?" Dean pushed away from Sam, and turned his back on him, tears filling his eyes. "Cause that's no life for either of us." Angrily wiping away the tears from his cheeks, Dean swung back to face him again. "I could hurt someone . . . hurt you, and I would rather die than to do that."

"Think I can't save you, Dean? Think I can't figure this out?" Sam's voice was filled with so much sadness and remorse, it ripped Dean's heart to shreds. "All I'm asking for here is a little faith and just a little more time. You fight this with everything you have in you, and I'll find the answer."

"And what if you don't? What if there's no solution?" Dean gestured toward Sam's bandaged arm. "What if next time I shoot you in the heart instead of the arm?" He then pointed at his journal. "Hell, I guess I could write it down. Would make for interesting late night reading. Not sure what I would write though. Maybe something along the lines of, shot the hazel-eyed man in the heart, watched him bleed to death, and I'm not sure where I left his body to rot."

Tears filled Sam's eyes at Dean's words. "I'd never let that happen. I can take care of you, and protect myself at the same time."

"That's the point, Sammy, I don't want you to have to take care of me. And I may be mental, but I'm not stupid, eventually I would end up killing you."

The look in Sam's eyes, and hard determined set of his jaw, told Dean he was not getting through to him. He knew his brother's stubborn streak had kicked in, and that Sam was hellbent on not doing what Dean needed him to do. "Sam, don't let me become a danger to you and others. That would be worse than going insane."

Sam was silent for a minute, and then slowly shook his head, pursing his lips. "No, what would be worse is if I just gave up on you. You'd never do that to me. Never." He stalked back to the table, snatched up the chair, slumped down onto the seat, and resumed his search.

As Sam scoured the internet, he kept an eye on Dean, fearing that at any moment his brother might be gone, replaced by the man who could shoot him in cold blood. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he knew Dean was right. It nearly killed him to admit it, even to himself, but Dean would be very dangerous if he lost his mind.

Sam wasn't so much worried about himself, but for others who wouldn't be able to defend themselves against someone like Dean who had been raised to be a living breathing weapon. But no matter what, he was certain he would never be able to do what Dean had asked of him.

Opening Dean's first journal, Sam reread the first page. He had to be missing something. The journal for all its ramblings was complete. The answer was there, he was almost sure of it. _Okay, so far I have focused on what Dean remembers, but what if the solution lies within the hunts we've never been on? _

He slowly turned the pages until he came to the first hunt that wasn't one of theirs, and read it through. The first two paragraphs gave sketchy details of a hunt for a werewolf in New Mexico, but it was the last paragraph that caught Sam's attention:

_It's cold and dark, and the shadows creep upon me as I await the demon. Eyes like that of a serpent, breath like fire. It swallows me whole and I am forsaken, left to wander in desolation for eternity. It is all my fault. All of it. It is too much to bear. Dean_

Sam reread the lower portion of the passage again, his steady gaze focusing on the second to last sentence as he recalled Dean saying nearly the same thing at the asylum. He didn't know why he'd missed it before. He tore through the pages looking for similar passages, and found they also spoke of a demon, being lost, and again of blaming himself for whatever had happened.

"Dean, what if these hunts we've never been on, aren't really hunts at all?" Sam hesitated a moment, thinking about the first one in New Mexico, and then added, "And if they are, maybe that's not the reason why you wrote about them in the first place."

"What do you mean?"

"What if they're emotions? Maybe yours or maybe this other hunter's."

"Not following you."

Dean rubbed his temples with his fingertips, and Sam could tell by his brother's pained expression the voices inside his mind were once again growing to an unbearable level.

"I'm talking about emotional demons. Maybe this other hunter felt so guilty about something that it ate away at him until there was nothing left."

"That's if there was . . . ." Dean's voice faded away, but his mouth remained slightly open. He squinched his eyes closed. "If there was. . . ." Pressing the palm of his hand against his forehead, Dean's fingers gripped onto his scruffy hair. "Damn it. What the hell was I gonna say?"

"Another hunter," Sam quickly supplied, and instantly regretted it as Dean glared at him. "There was another hunter. His name was Bo Raskins," Sam said in a breathless rush, not giving Dean a chance to argue with him again. "He was a patient at Roosevelt."

"An what did . . . what — " Dean gripped onto the back of the chair, arms trembling, his knuckles whitening with the force he was exerting to keep himself standing upright. His breath came in short panted bursts as he squeezed his eyes closed even tighter. "Oh God, why won't they go away. Never go away. Want them outta my head. They won't go . . . won't leave me alone."

Sam rushed to Dean's side, gripped hold of his hands, and forced him to let go of the chair. "Fight this, Dean. Fight it for me. Don't you let it win."

"Can't. Too loud. Too damn loud."

"Focus on my voice. Drowned them out." Looking over his brother's shoulder, Sam quickly searched the room for any objects that Dean might hurt himself with or could be used as potential weapons, glad now that he'd locked his brother's knife in the trunk of Impala.

On the bedside table, he spied the first aid kit, and recalled a half-empty bottle of mild sedatives inside it. They wouldn't be strong enough to knock Dean out, but maybe they would calm him down. Trouble was, would Dean take them from him or would he fight him again? Sam didn't want to have to physically knock him out again, he'd already felt horrible for having to do it at the asylum.

"I can help you with the pain, Dean, but you gotta trust me."

"No. Can't. You want to trick me. You lie. Trying to take it away from me. They said so. They told me."

Sam let go of Dean's wrist and snatched his journal off the table. Opening it to the last entry, he shoved it into Dean's hand, and gestured to what Dean had written about him. "If you can't trust me, then trust yourself. Read it."

"The man with hazel eyes is named Sam. He is my brother. I can trust him. Dean," Dean read aloud, a slight tremor in his voice. Sam watched his brother's lips move as he silently reread the words over and over again, and then Dean glanced up at him, a flicker of recognition in his eyes. "Sam?"

"Yeah." A sad, rueful smile played across Sam's features.

"Don't wanna do this anymore. Just want it to stop."

"I know."

Sam headed for the table between the two beds. Once there, he opened the kit, took out the small orange bottle, opened it, and shook two into his hand before closing and placing it back with the medical supplies.

Walking back to his brother, Sam extended his hand to give them to Dean, and saw the look of mistrust cloud his eyes again. "It's okay, Dean. I swear they're just to calm the voices."

Dean read what he'd written again, his hands trembling so badly, Sam thought he might drop the book. After several agonizingly slow seconds past where Sam wasn't sure if Dean would actually take the pills, his brother finally snatched them out of Sam's hand and dry swallowed them.

Any relief Sam might've felt at the sight of his brother trusting him was short-lived. He knew he couldn't continue drugging Dean or knocking him unconscious every time he had another break with reality. _What if Dean's right? What if it gets so bad, I have to have him locked up?_

His mind refused to accept the fact that he couldn't help Dean. _No, I have to be right. It has to have something to do with emotions. Guilt, fear, rage . . . rage._

Suddenly the memory of Doctor Ellicott's words echoed repeatedly inside Sam's head. _Don't be afraid. I'm going to make you feel all better. _

_That son of a bitch. _Sam stormed to his computer, and typed in Doctor Ellicott's name, cross-referenced it with Bo Raskins', and waited for a reply.


	8. Chapter 8

_another chappy of Tricked...hope everyone enjoys!! thaks for reading and all the awesome reviews!! thanks again, bambers;)_

_Chapter Eight_

"Got a lead, Dean." Sam closed his laptop, and yanked the car keys out of his pocket. "It's not much, but there's a woman named, Mildred Pierce, who might know something about Bo."

"Hmm . . . . who's Bo?" Dean asked, sitting up in bed, a look of confusion registering on his face.

"Bo Raskins, the man I told you about earlier," Sam replied, trying to keep the slight irritation from his tone at having to repeat himself over and over again. He didn't elaborate any further on the subject, and Dean didn't ask for any more details. It was hard enough on Dean trying to remember Sam, and Sam would much rather have him not know the facts he'd uncovered, then not know who he was. "Let's go."

In the car, Sam chanced several glances in his brother's direction, and each time noticed Dean's pained-filled expression as he kept his eyes tightly close, palms pressed into the sides of his head. "You okay, Dean?"

"M'okay."

"You sure," Sam asked when he heard Dean groan.

"Yeah. Can you just turn the music down, there's too much noise."

"Sure." Sam reached over and flipped off the radio. "We'll be there shortly, why don't you try to rest a little."

"Yeah, okay," Dean mumbled in a shaky voice, the abject sadness and fear in his tone clearly evident to Sam.

Sam opened his mouth to say something, to give his brother some sort of hope to cling onto, but couldn't think of the right words, and quickly closed it. Not knowing what else to do, he returned his attention to the facts he'd uncovered about Bo, running them over and over again inside his mind.

His research into a connection between Bo and Doctor Ellicott hadn't yielded the answers he was hoping to find. Upon reflection, he really didn't find it all that surprising. Hunters like himself, Dean, and Bo knew the importance of flying under the radar. So he was back at square one on that count, learning little more than the background information about the victims of Bo's attacks, and when he was sent to Roosevelt.

The one interesting fact that he'd discovered though was that Bo had gone to prison for a short time before being transferred to the asylum and placed under Doctor Ellicott's care. It really wasn't a lot to go on, but it was something, and Sam clung onto it like a lifeline.

From his research into Bo's fifteen victims, he'd found out that most of them were from poor families or homeless people, and had it not been for one missing person, Bo would've probably never have gotten caught.

Mildred Pierce had been from a very prominent local family, and was an up and coming author, having already published two novels. Her disappearance had sparked a massive investigation, and eventually Bo had been captured by the police, but not before the damage had already been done. Mildred, like all Bo's previous victims had gone insane, although her family refused to have her committed.

Sam had managed to locate an address for Mildred, and that was where they were headed now. Something about her being an author struck him as curious. Maybe it was the first lines of every entry in Dean's journal. They sounded as if they were something a writer might have written. Almost poetic. Definitely not something Dean would come up with on his own.

A short distance outside of town, Sam turned onto a long circular driveway, pulled up to the house, and killed the engine. Gently nudging Dean on the shoulder, he bobbed his head toward the house. "We're here, Dean."

Dean opened his eyes, narrowing them to mere slits as he glanced in the direction of the home. He looked back at Sam, and Sam saw the forlorn, questioning look in his green orbs, but Dean didn't say a word as he got out of the car and headed for the house. Sam followed at a few paces behind. Unshed tears brimmed in his eyes as he tried to quell the deep-seeded ache that one fleeting glance from Dean had caused him.

As they stood outside the sprawling two-story manor house, Sam had a moment of doubt that an insane woman could be of any help to them. If she was anything at all like Dean was when his bursts of insanity kicked in, Sam had no doubt this was going to be another dead end, and he really didn't even want to consider the possibility.

Walking up the steps and past four stark white columns leading to an expansive veranda with a white wooden porch swing sitting off to the left, Sam trudged to the entrance and knocked on the impressive looking mahogany door with stained-glass windows. After a few moments, the door opened, and a young woman in her early twenties answered the door.

She smiled politely when she saw Sam and Dean. "Can I help you?" Her green-eyed gaze lingered on Sam for a few seconds, before she blushed and lowered her head.

"My name is Sam," he hitched a thumb in Dean's direction, "and this is my brother, Dean. We were wondering if Mildred Pierce still lives here?"

The woman's smile turned to a slight frown as she pensively bit at her lower lip. "Yes, she does, she's my Grandmother. Why do you want to know?"

"Is there anyway we could speak with her?"

Tucking a few strands of golden-chestnut hair that had fallen loosely over her eyes behind her ears, she gave them a quizzical look. "Why?"

"We wanted to ask her a few questions about Bo Raskin's? It's really important."

The woman's green eyes flashed with anger, the golden flecks in them becoming more prominent. "What do you want to know about him for?" She glanced at Dean for a moment, her expression softening slightly as she watched him pressing his palms into his temples, eyes tightly closed. She returned her attention to Sam. "My Grandmother usually doesn't receive visitors . . . she's not well."

"It won't take long, I promise." Smiling awkwardly, Sam gave her his best wounded puppy-dog look, and saw the tension leave her shoulders and facial expression.

She opened the door a little wider, and bobbed her head toward the stairs inside the house, leading to the second floor. "She never leaves her room," she hesitated, and then reluctantly added, "says it's safer there."

"Thanks, umm . . . ."

"Samantha."

"Thanks, Samantha."

"Hey, that's what I call him," Dean chuckled weakly as he pointed at Sam, and then started mumbling to himself again so lost to the pain he was feeling.

"Huh?" Samantha stared at Dean, and Sam could tell she was having second thoughts about letting yet another crazy person enter her home. "What's wrong with him?" she asked warily. Crossing her arms in front of herself, she moved to bar the entrance.

"He's why I am here," Sam reluctantly admitted, knowing she wasn't going to let them in now after hearing Dean's strange crazed ramblings. He reached into the pocket of his hoodie, and yanked out Dean's journal. "Thought maybe Mildred could explain this." He handed her the book.

Samantha cautiously reached out, took it from him, and opened the journal to the first page. Her eyes widened, mouth dropping open as she looked up at Sam. "How did he know this? No one knows this?"

"What?"

"There is a cold dark place in my mind. It is where my soul seeks comfort, but finds none. From shallow graves and sleepless nights I have somehow lost my way. I may not want to understand it, but as time goes on this journal will be my only way to recall what has happened and what has been lost along the way."

"You know what that means?" Sam asked in shocked surprise. "If you do, I need to know. It's very important."

Samantha tapped her fingers nervously on the edges of the journal for a moment as if undecided what she should do, and then stepped back away from the door and let them enter. Handing the journal back to Sam, she motioned for them to follow. "Come with me."

She led them up the stairs, and down the long hallway to the very last room on the right hand side. Knocking on the door, she opened it, and peeked inside. "Grandma, there are two men here who want to speak to you."

From inside, Sam heard a muffled reply come from Mildred, and Samantha stood back and let them enter the room belonging to her grandmother.

"Don't upset her or you'll have to leave." Samantha moved to stand beside the wall, watching them both carefully.

Sam's breath caught in his throat as he took a look around the room and saw the words that were written in Dean's journal scrawled along every inch of the four walls. He took in the rest of the room, noticing that besides the bed, dressers and the chair that Mildred was rocking in near the window, there were no decorations of any type.

He turned questioning eyes to Samantha. His mouth dropped open to speak, but he couldn't think of a words to say, and slammed it shut.

"We had to take everything out of here. The writing is done in chalk, can't really hurt yourself with chalk," she supplied, then lowered her gaze, and Sam could tell she was embarrassed to have to admit that.

Raking his fingers through his hair, Sam fearfully wondered how long it would be before he would have to do the same thing for Dean if they couldn't find out how to stop whatever was happening to him. "And the writing? Do you know what it means?"

Samantha shook her head. "No. She never told any of us. Actually, when I saw your brother's journal, I was kinda hoping you could tell me."

Dean, who had been standing outside the room, stepped in and glanced around, his expression darkening. His lips moved as he silently read the words written on the walls repeatedly to himself. Sam could sense the tension rising in his brother, and saw the anger flash in his eyes, and worried if he'd done the right thing in coming here for help. The longer Dean stood there looking at the writing on the walls the more agitated he became, and Sam feared what he might do.

"It's okay, Dean. They're just words," he said in a low placating voice, not wanting Samantha to know what he was saying. When his attempt at calming his brother was met with an angry glare, Sam cracked open Dean's journal to the last entry, and handed it to him. "Read it, Dean. You can trust me. There is nothing here that can hurt you."

"Liar," came the raspy old voice of the woman sitting in the rocking chair. "All of it lies meant to torture the mind. They say it's not . . . want you to believe it. In the end, it all comes down to words."

Samantha rushed to her grandmother's side, and dropped down beside her. "It's okay, Grandma. You're safe. They can't get you here."

"They try you know. They try." Mildred jabbed a gnarled finger into her temple. "Always in here. Always wanting out. But, I can't let them. They want to take it from me, but I won't let them."

Sam drew in a sharp breath, hearing Mildred utter nearly the same things Dean would say when insanity overtook him.

"She's not always like this," Samantha said, without glancing in Sam's direction. "Sometimes she has really good days. She tells stories and we laugh. Always told the best stories."

Samantha turned pleading eyes to Sam, silently begging him to understand what she was going through, and how much her grandmother's illness affected her, and his heart broke for the young woman who obviously loved Mildred dearly. A tear rolled down her cheek, and she hastily brushed it aside as she tried her best to smile at Sam.

Sam nodded, tears welling in his eyes as he thought of Dean going through the same things as Mildred, and wondered how the old woman managed to live so long like she had. It amazed Sam that Samantha's family had chosen to take care of Mildred at home instead of placing her in a care facility, and he felt a deep sense of respect for them.

"I understand," was all Sam could think to reply as he gave his brother a sideways glance.

Dean looked up from reading his journal, and Sam saw the fearful look in his eyes before Dean could manage to hide it beneath a stony facade. "Let's go, Sam." Grabbing onto Sam's jacket, Dean tried to pull him out of the room.

"No, Dean. We haven't even spoken to her yet." Sam shrugged free of his grasp.

"What could she possibly say that could help? Just look at her." Dean inclined his head in Mildred's direction, and Sam turned to look at the old woman, pulling at wisps of her silvery-white curls, and returned his attention to Dean. "I don't want you to see m — her like this. She can't help us."

His brother's near slip was not lost on Sam. Sam knew Dean was worried what seeing Mildred would do to him. Knew Dean was terrified that he would someday soon be just like the old woman, staring blindly out the window, and writing pure craziness on the walls. _That's not gonna happen, Dean. I promise that's not gonna happen. _But even as he silently made the vow, he wasn't sure if it was a promise he could keep, and it tore at his insides.

"Dunno, Dean, but this," he gestured around the room at the writing on the walls, "this is not nothing. And as it is our only true lead as to what is happening to you, I'm not walking away from it."

Sam cautiously approached Mildred not wanting to frighten her as Dean stood stoically at the door. Crouching down beside the old woman, he began to speak in a soft soothing tone meant not to frighten her, "Mildred, I need to ask you a few questions about Bo Raskins."

Mildred focused her icy blue-eyed gaze on Sam, her forehead wrinkling into deep lines as she frowned and pursed her lips. "Raskins . . . books. Take the blame. It's your fault. Can't live like this. All my fault."

Sam latched onto her last words. The same words Dean kept repeating. They had to mean something important if both Mildred and Dean said them. "What's your fault?"

The old woman's eyes narrowed at his question as if she'd thought he were the one who was crazy. As if her ramblings made perfect sense, and Sam realized to her, they did.

"Little one. Bo." Her thin, wiry arm snaked out, and she grabbed hold of Sam's jacket in a surprisingly firm grasp. "All my fault. They said so," she ranted, her voice growing louder and more desperate as she continued. "Couldn't leave . . . Bo. Had to do it. No choice. All my fault. Deserve this . . . deserve it all."

As Sam listened, he started to get an idea of what she was referring to when she said it was her fault, although he was almost afraid to voice it out loud with Samantha standing so nearby. But his need to help Dean far outranked his desire to save the young girl from anymore pain.

"So you were pregnant with Bo's baby?" he asked, and then glanced up to see the shocked expression on Samantha's face.

Samantha opened her mouth to speak, and Sam was certain she was going to tell him and Dean to get the hell out of her house when Mildred cut her off.

"Had to. Had to end it. Couldn't leave . . . Gone . . . Little one."

"You had an abortion?" Sam pressed onward, not knowing how long Samantha would allow him to continue with this line of questioning. "And Bo was mad? So mad that he kidnaped you and did this to you."

"So mad. Should've left . . . couldn't leave . . . all my fault." Tears slipped down the older woman's cheeks as her grasp tightened on Sam's jacket.

"He wanted you to leave your husband, but you couldn't." Sam looked up at Samantha again, "How old was your mother when Mildred was abducted?" He hated having to ask, knowing how hard it had to be on Samantha learning Mildred had an affair with the man responsible for driving her insane.

"Five. Why?" she asked in return, although he could tell she was fitting all the pieces to the puzzle together by herself, but couldn't bring herself to say them out loud.

"Makes sense. She couldn't leave your mother. She felt trapped by what she'd done, so had an abortion and broke things off with Bo."

"You can't be serious. Grams would never do that," Samantha hesitated, and Sam knew she was trying to find a better explaination for what Mildred was saying. "I mean, she just wouldn't. She loved my grandfather."

"I'm sorry, Samantha. I really am, but I believe it's the truth."

Sam was starting to understand the bigger picture of what had happened to both Mildred and Bo, and why they'd both gone insane. Guilt had consumed them both until there was nothing left but insanity; Mildred's guilt stemming from her affair and subsequent abortion, and Bo's from hurting the woman he loved. And if that was the reason, then the same had to apply to Dean. But he wondered how knowing any of this helped his brother as both of them had gone insane, and if they did, Sam feared it was only a matter of time that Dean did as well.

"Sammy," Dean called out from the doorway, startling Sam.

He'd almost forgotten that Dean had been standing there as he'd had remained so silent throughout the entire conversation.

Dean hitched a thumb toward the door. "Think we should go."

"Just a sec, Dean." He returned his attention to Samantha. "Mildred didn't by chance keep any journals did she?"

"Tons of them, why?"

"Think I could borrow the first one she wrote? I promise I'll bring it back."

"Don't have it. Have the rest of them, but not that one."

"What happened to it?" Sam had a hard time keeping the disappointment from his voice hearing that.

"My journal . . . he stole it. My book . . . my book. Want it back. Have to finish it. It has it all. Everything. Says what can not be said." Mildred accused in a highly agitated tone, and Samantha placed a calming hand on her shoulder.

"Book?" Sam raised a quizzical brow, for some reason knowing it wasn't the journal Mildred was referring to.

"She was writing a novel before she was abducted," Samantha quickly supplied. "A couple of years ago back, a man came here claiming he was a writing a story about Bo and what had happened to his victims." She took a deep breath, and gestured for Sam and Dean to follow her out of the room to speak in private. Once outside the door, she continued, "He asked a lot of strange questions about the Roosevelt Asylum, Bo, and Doctor Ellicott, and after he was gone, we realized that he'd stolen my grandmother's first journal along with the book she'd been writing."

"Can you remember what this man looked like?" Sam asked, fearing he already knew the answer, and if he was right, he worried he would never be able to find the book or journal.

"Tall, dark hair, and eyes." She stroked her chin. "And as I recall, he had a beard. Didn't really look like much of a writer from what I can recall."

Sam gave Dean a knowing glance, and realized the meaning behind her words was lost on him. _Damn it, if Dad took her journal and book, he must've had a reason. Something about them must have been very important. But where the hell would he have left them? And how the hell am I supposed to find them before it's too late?_

Samantha ushered them back down the stairs, and at the door, Sam and Dean paused for a moment.

"Thanks for letting us talk to Mildred, Samantha." Sam smiled, trying not to let his disappointment over not having the two books show. "It was a big help."

She glanced at Sam and then her gaze lingered on Dean for a moment, a sad frown settling on her face. "I really hope you can find your answers," she replied, and Sam realized she understood what they were both going through.

"Thanks," both boys replied in unison, and turned and strode back to the Impala.

Once inside the car, Dean swivelled in his seat to look at Sam. "Big freakin' waste of time, Sammy," he said, and Sam didn't fail to notice how shaky his voice was nor the look of fear in his brother's eyes.

"It wasn't a waste of time. Just need to find those books."

"What books?"

"The one's Dad stole from her." And thinking of Bobby, he added, "And I think I know where to begin searching for them."


	9. Chapter 9

_hope everyone enjoys the chapter!! thanks for all the awesome reviews cause i really love writing this story!! thanks for reading!! bambers;)_

_Chapter Nine_

Sam had unsuccessfully tried to reach Bobby for the past several hours, and was running of patience. Every time the older man's answering machine would click on, Sam would slam down the phone in utter frustration.

"Damn it. Where the hell is he?" he fumed, pacing back and forth in the small expanse of their motel room.

He was almost tempted to pack everything up and travel to the salvage yard to find the book and journal, but knew he didn't have that kind of time. Even if they drove straight through the night, and on into the next day, it would still be at least a three day round trip journey, and what with Dean's deteriorating mental state, Sam feared he wouldn't last the trip.

"Where's who?" Dean glanced up at him from his seat on the small couch where he was busy writing in his journal. Rubbing his temples and squinting, he looked around the room, and then his gaze settled back on Sam. "Were we talkin' about somethin'?"

Sam was quiet for a moment as he tried to imagine what it must be like for his normally so in control brother to know everything was slipping away. That he was going insane. He wondered if at this point, did Dean even realize what he was missing or had that part of his brain shut down as well, allowing madness to creep in.

As the day had wore on, his brother's frantic ramblings and mumbling had become almost ceaseless, his lucid moments coming further and further apart. And even when he was cognizant of what was going on around him, there was a vague far-off expression in his eyes. To Sam, at these moments, it appeared as if Dean were trying desperately to store away little bits of information about him so he wouldn't forget. Dean would then grab for his journal and start hastily jotting things down.

Sam wanted to see what he writing, but didn't have the heart to ask, knew if he interrupted the memories Dean was gathering would be lost to him. And at this point, Sam wanted Dean to get as much down on paper as possible, wanted to have Dean remember him no matter what happened, and if these bursts of writing assured that, then Sam wanted to see him writing every second.

"We weren't talking about anything, Dean." He smiled reassuringly at his brother, and added, "Was just talking to myself." He instantly regretted it, when he saw his brother's perplexed expression turn to one of anger.

"Careful, Sam, someone might think you're going crazy." There was such an edge of bitterness in his tone, it nearly stole Sam's breath away.

"Didn't mean anything by it."

"Of course you didn't," Dean replied in the same scathing manner.

"Was just thinking aloud."

"But nothin you want to share with me, right?" In a mere blink, his older brother's expression changed again, and it appeared as if Dean were reaching out to him, begging Sam to give him a moment of normalcy, no matter how fleetingly it might be.

That one pleading glance from Dean broke Sam's heart in a way that no other had ever before, and he had to look away so Dean wouldn't see the tears forming in his eyes. "Was just thinking about Bobby."

"Bobby?" Dean cleared his throat, drawing Sam's attention back to him. "Bobby," he said again as he rubbed his hands together nervously, and mumbled to himself. After a long pause, he finally shook his head. "Who is he . . . should I know him?" The hesitation in Dean's voice spoke volumes, and Sam knew if he said the wrong thing now, he might do irreparable damage to his brother's already fragile psyche.

Sam glanced down at the journal sitting on Dean's lap, trying to remember if there was any mention of Bobby in there, but couldn't recall any. "No. He's someone I met the other day. Was just thinking how much you would like him."

"Why's that?"

Sam could tell Dean was trying to work out in his mind if Sam was lying to him. His brother's gaze darted back and forth between him and the journal in a crazed manic way.

"Should know him, shouldn't I, Sammy?" Dean finally uttered, having not been able to figure it out on his own. "Don't lie to me."

Biting at his lower lip, Sam lowered his head, afraid to look his brother in the eyes, afraid that Dean would see how broken-hearted he was. He couldn't let his brother see how much it tore him up inside, having to explain who a person he'd known most of his life was, and he didn't even know how to begin.

"Umm — "

An abrupt knock on the door, effectively stopped Sam from having to admit his lie, and he let out a deep thankful sigh.

Dean was on his feet answering it before Sam had a chance to stop him. Scratching the back of his head, he stood there silently staring at the apparent stranger for a few moments, before saying, "Pretty sure my brother paid for two more days."

"What the hell are you talking about, Dean," came Bobby's gruff sounding voice, and Sam couldn't have been more relieved.

Sam rushed to the door, pushing Dean out of the way, to let the old hunter enter. "You have no idea how glad I am that you're here, Bobby," Sam said as he practically dragged the older man into the room. "How the hell did you find us?"

Scrubbing his hand across his bearded face, Bobby looked from Sam to Dean, a puzzled expression forming on his features, and then back at Sam. "When you hung up on me, got worried, and started doin' a little digging into the asylum. An' let's just say, I didn't like what I was reading, so got in my truck an' headed here."

Out of the corner of his eye, Sam saw Dean back up against the wall, and slide along it until he'd reached the corner. His brother crumpled to the ground, holding his head and peering up warily at Bobby.

"Said he would come an' get me. Said he would come an' get me. Stay away from me. Can't let him get me." Dean rocked back and forth in a manic fashion as he continued to repeat the same words over and over again.

"Dean." Sam rushed to his brother and dropped down beside him. "It's okay. It's Bobby. He's not gonna hurt you. Listen to me. He's not gonna hurt you, I promise."

"You see him right? Right? You see him . . . don't let him take me."

Sam nodded, not knowing what else to do. "Yeah, Dean, I see him," he said in a quiet tone meant not to frighten his brother anymore than he already appeared.

If it were even possible, Dean pressed himself further against the wall, his fingers curling tightly around his hair as he shook his head. "No. No. No. No. No. You don't. You lie. You lie. They say you do . . . they say it."

"What's the matter with him, Sam?" Bobby asked, not moving an inch closer to where the boys were, apparently realizing he was the cause of Dean's odd behavior.

Placing a calming hand on his brother's shoulder, Sam turned his head to look Bobby squarely in the eyes. An understanding passed between them, and Bobby nodded, and turned to leave, but not before Sam mouthed a silent word of thanks.

When he was gone, Sam turned back to Dean and noted the wild gleam in his glistening green eyes. Dean's body trembled, jerking spasmodically as he dug his fingertips into his scalp.

"It's all words. It all comes down to words. Words and lies. They say it. Say it's my fault."

"Dean, you have to try and calm down." Sam reached in the pocket of his jeans, yanked out the bottle of sedatives, opened them, and shook two into his hand. "Here take these."

A hint of recognition glimmered in Dean's eyes, and for a moment Sam thought he would take them, but at the last second, Dean flung out his arm and slapped Sam's hand away. The pills flew from his hand, landing several feet away.

"Tryin' to poison me. Liar. Tryin' to take it from me. I won't let you," Dean snarled viciously.

Forcefully pushing Sam away, Dean was on his feet in a shot. Sam tumbled backward landing on all fours. Quickly scampering to his feet, Sam ducked narrowly avoiding the fist Dean swung at him.

"Damn it, Dean, stop! I'm not tryin' to hurt you," Sam tried to reason.

Dean stalked toward him, fists tightly clenched, and swung out at him. Sam caught his arm, twisted it, and forcefully pushed him away. Crashing into the table and knocking over the chairs, Dean staggered to his feet, and whipped around to face Sam.

"You sonuvabitch!"

They circled. Dean vying for an open shot, Sam trying to defend himself without hurting his brother.

"Listen, Dean — "

Before Sam could manage to get the rest of the words out, Dean slammed his fist into Sam's jaw. Sam's head jerked to the side as his brother landed another well-placed punch to his ribcage followed by a jab to the stomach, knocking the wind out of him. Staggering backwards a few steps, Sam tried unsuccessfully to draw in a deep breath.

Dean advanced again. Sam caught hold of his wrist and jerked it around his brother's back, and bringing up his foot, kicked Dean into the wall. Recovering quickly, Dean charged at him full speed, slammed into him, knocking them both to the ground.

Rolling, Dean leapt on top of him, smashing his fists into Sam's face repeatedly. Sam's head snapped back and forth with the force of the blows. Blood oozed from his lips and from a gash in his cheek where Dean's silver ring ripped it open.

Dean swung again. Sam grabbed his arm, and yanked it hard to the side, dislodging him, and sprang to his feet. Dean followed.

"Dean! Stop," Sam shouted, dragging the back of his hand across his bloodied lips. "You don't know what you're doing."

His brother's eyes narrowed, a scowl furrowing his brows. "You made it happen. You brought them to me. It's because of you."

"Don't know what you mean. What did I make happen?"

An angry growl erupted from Dean's lips as once again advanced on Sam, hooking his arm around Sam's neck and slamming his fist into Sam's mid-section. Sam elbowed him hard in the gut, and swung to ram his fist into his brother's face.

Dean staggered backwards for a moment, struggling to catch his breath. Regaining his balance, he barreled into Sam, grabbing him by the shoulders, and driving his knee into Sam's stomach. The force of the blow lifted Sam off his feet as a rush of air expelled from his lungs.

Out of the corner of his eye, Sam caught sight of movement near the door as Bobby crept back into the room. Not wanting to draw attention to the older hunter, Sam swung at Dean again. His brother caught his arm mid-strike, yanked it, and brought his elbow down forcefully against Sam's forearm. Sam bit down hard against the cry of pain escaping his lips.

Bobby grabbed a heavy lamp off the table near the door, and stealthily crept up behind Dean, smashing it over his head. Glass shatter to the ground as Dean staggered forward into Sam's arms. He glanced up briefly at Sam, confusion evident in his bleary-eyed gaze, and then collapsed into unconsciousness.

The older hunter looked from Dean to Sam, frowned, and shook his head. "Mind tellin' me what's goin' on now?"

"Just a sec, Bobby, gotta make sure he's okay."

Gently laying his brother down on the bed, Sam quickly accessed the damage caused by the lamp, and finding only a few small cuts, set about to cleaning them. As he worked he filled Bobby in on the details of what happened, and how he'd been trying to reach him to ask about the book and journal.

"So, you're thinkin' that whatever was in that book and journal could help Dean regain his sanity?" Readjusting his baseball cap so it sat low over his brow, Bobby rubbed his bearded chin thoughtfully as he stared at Dean. "Don't know, Sam. Yer Dad never figured out what caused those people to go insane. An' it weren't for lack of tryin either. Spent months goin' over documents and papers."

"But why?" Sam couldn't understand why his father would research something that wasn't necessarily supernatural in nature, unless he'd found something to make him believe it was. "Doesn't seem like something he would bother looking into."

Bobby was quiet for a moment, his frown deepening. "Dean's not the first hunter to have this happen to him. There was another before him. A guy by the name of Will Jacobson. John ever mention him to you?"

Sam tried to recall if he'd ever heard the name before, but couldn't remember ever hearing it before. He shook his head. "Nope, never have."

"Good guy. A marine just like yer Dad, and an excellent hunter until he went insane."

"An' my Dad never found out a reason why?"

Bobby lowered his head. "No. Sorry, Sam."

"Whatever happened to Will?" Sam asked, almost afraid to hear the answer.

"Shot himself in the head. Yer Dad was the one who found him."

Sam glanced at his brother, and without looking back at Bobby, he said, "So, my Dad couldn't find away to stop it from ever happening again to someone else?"

"Sorry, Sam." Bobby shook his head. "He tried. Never could figure it out."

"Do you have the books?"

"Yeah," he jerked a thumb over his shoulder, "they're in the truck.."

"Okay, I'm gonna need them," Sam said determinedly, not about to give up so easily, his mind on room 137 at the asylum. Dean had found Dr. Ellicott's medical journals there, and Sam wondered what else he might find if he dug further. "But first, I need you to stay with Dean while I go back to the asylum to check some things out on my own."

"What do you think yer gonna find there?"

"Don't know, but if it started there, then the answers have to be there, right?"

"Guess so, but what about him?" Bobby gestured toward Dean. "If he gets any worse, I'm not sure I can handle him."

Sam nodded in understanding, not liking the only option really left open to him at this point. He couldn't take Dean with him, not after what had happened the last time. And he couldn't just stay, and hope the book and journal would provide all the answers. "We have to tie him up." Even as he said it, he hated the idea. "It's the only way to make sure he doesn't hurt himself or someone else," he added, and wasn't really certain if he mentioned it more for himself than for Bobby's sake.

"Okay, I'll go an' get the books and some rope outta the truck, an' then you can go to the asylum," Bobby said, without questioning Sam's reasoning." He turned to head for the door.

"Bobby."

The hunter swung back to him, and nodded in understanding at all the things left unsaid between them.

"Thanks."

"Don't mention it." He gestured toward Sam's face. "Now go an' get yourself cleaned up. Gonna have one helluva shiner. That brother of yours packs one helluva a good wallop." He smiled wryly as he strode out the door, closing it behind him.


	10. Chapter 10

_sorry for the delay...real life sometimes gets in the way!! thanks for reading!! bambers;)_

_Chapter Ten_

Sam made quick work of tying up his brother, making sure the knots were tight enough around Dean's wrists so he couldn't break free, and then double checked them just to be on the safe side. He couldn't leave Bobby alone with him otherwise. He then tied Dean's ankles to each of the chair legs as an added measure of protection.

Squatting in front of his brother, Sam lifted Dean's chin off his shoulder, and frowned, trying to think of the right words to say, even though he knew Dean wouldn't hear them. After several long moments, he finally cleared his throat, and began, "Sorry, Dean. Didn't want to have to do this." He gestured awkwardly at the ropes, and then let his hand fall loosely to the side. "I know you'd understand if you were . . . well, it doesn't really matter, cause I will make you better. And if you want to kick my ass afterwards, then I'll even let you get the first shot in." Sam chuckled wryly. "But only one, cause I owe ya," he said, rubbing his sore cheek.

Sam stood and grabbed the car keys off the table. He turned and regarded Bobby thoughtfully for a moment, wondering just what they would do without the old hunter. It hadn't been the first time the older man had come to their aid in their time of need, and he doubted it would be the last. Or at least he'd hoped it wouldn't.

_What if Dean can't ever hunt again? What if like Dad, I can't find an answer? _Sam pushed aside those thoughts, not about to give into his nagging doubts.

"Bobby, be careful." Sam motioned to the ropes around Dean's wrists and ankles. "An' whatever happens, make sure you don't untie him." he glanced at his brother one last time, words formed on his lips, but when he opened his mouth to speak nothing came out.

"I'll look after him, Sam," Bobby replied, seemingly understanding what Sam couldn't bring himself to say. "You just go an' find out how to fix this mess."

With his hand on the door knob, Sam nodded. "Thanks, Bobby."

XxXxXxXxXxXxX

Sam pulled up alongside the curb, down the road a ways from the asylum, grabbed his flashlight, got out of the car, and headed toward the back of the Impala. Popping the lid, he grabbed his sawed-off shotgun, extra salt rounds, and his .45, tucking it in his waistband, then closed the trunk

As it was already nearing dark, the road was less busy than it would've probably normally been, which Sam was thankful for. Spotting a couple of teenagers milling around at the street corner, smoking and laughing loudly, Sam was forced to walk around the entire length of the asylum before returning to the spot where he could enter.

The teenagers had moved on down the road, but he could still hear their loud laughter and cursing as the disappeared into the night. A short sigh of relief escaped his lips as he finally scaled the fence and dropped down to the other side, landing squarely on his feet. Taking one last quick glance around and seeing nothing, he flip on his flashlight, and headed inside.

Cautiously, he made his way past all the clutter and broken down medical supplies, sidestepping gurneys, wheelchairs, and other odds and ends on his way to the second floor. His first stop was the room he'd found Dean in the day before. If his brother had come to this room, there had to be a reason. It just couldn't have been a random act on his part. Something had drawn Dean here, and it was up to Sam to figure out what it was.

He walked to the wall where Dean had said he'd broken the mirror, noticed the dried blood from where his brother had smashed his hand into it repeatedly, then leaned in closer to get a better look, and saw a faint rectangular outline. _Huh, so there was something here at one point._

Sam turned, and bent to pick up some of the papers scattered along the floor, fingers touching on a few old photos. He snatched one up and looked at the small boy in the photo, feeling as if he'd seen him somewhere before, but couldn't recall where. Grabbing the next one off the ground, Sam saw the same young boy with curling blond hair, along with an older woman. She didn't seem at all familiar to Sam, so he wondered why the boy would.

He flipped the photo over and read the faint writing on the back: _Susan and James. Family reunion 1961. _"James?" He tapped the picture against his knee as he thought about the boy and the woman in the picture. "Why the hell do I feel like I should know who he is?"

Pocketing the two pictures, Sam turned his flashlight on the bed, the narrow beam reflecting on something sticking out from beneath the worn, sagging mattress. He reached down and grabbed it, turning his head to the side when he thought he saw a shadow flit across the wall, but saw nothing.

Sam sat on the bed, placed his shotgun at his side, and let his fingers slid over the worn, smooth cover of the journal he'd just found. The yellowing pages were lined in gold, and the name Susan had been embossed in gold beneath the words, My Journal.

Carefully, he opened to the first page, the book creaking softly in protest, and began reading.

_Sanford seems to think he can help me. Thinks he has a way to control the guilt . . . to make it all just go away. But, how can I forget? How can I ever forget that it was all my fault. It is my guilt. My shame. He is trying to take it from me. I won't let him. _

Sam drew in a sharp breath, reading what she'd written, knowing that Dean had said the same things. Whoever this woman was, she seemed to know Doctor Ellicott by first name basis, and if that was true, maybe she was his first patient. He continued reading, hoping to find more information on her, and whatever Sanford had done to her.

_She had beautiful curling brown hair. She was perfect, so like James. So sweet and innocent. It is all my fault. I should've seen. Should've stopped it from happening. Bo tried to help. He couldn't protect her. Why can't Sanford see that it is all my fault? _

"Okay, so Susan knew Bo, too . . . her husband maybe?" Sam tried to recall if there was anything in Mildred's ramblings to indicate that he might have been married when they had an affair, but couldn't think of any.

The more Sam read the more he noticed the differences between how his brother wrote and how Susan did. Although she'd clearly been a patient at the asylum, her thoughts were well conceived and rational, whereas his brother's were at best incoherent. Yet, as with Dean and Mildred, Sam could sense an overwhelming amount of guilt in Susan's writing. Guilt she felt she rightly deserved and did not want to be relinquished of.

Halfway through the journal, the writing changed drastically, becoming urgent and rushed as if Susan feared she wouldn't get it all down before she forgot.

_He says it's normal. Says I shouldn't worry. Why does he look at me like that? He wants to take it from me. He's trying to force it from me. It was so painful. Then there was nothing. I am nothing. All I have is what I lost. And still he can not take it from me. _

Sam flipped to the last pages, and noticed dried brown splotches that looked suspiciously like blood stains. In the creases of the journal, tiny pieces of broken mirrored glass reflected off his flashlight. Peering down at them for a few moments, Sam then glanced up at the spot where Dean had hit the wall, realization dawning on him that there had been a mirror there. Without even having to read the last page, Sam knew she'd killed herself.

A strong chilled breeze filled the air, Sam's breath coming in soft plumes of white smoke as the temperature plummeted drastically in the small room. Darkened shadows floated ominously across the outer wall, and quickly disappeared from view. Sam shut the book about to grab for his gun when he heard footsteps coming from the hallway.

"It's mine," came a woman's voice from out of the darkness, and Sam flashed his light on the doorway. A woman with long flowing blond hair stood with arms outstretched. Two long gaping wounds ran vertically along her wrists. "I want it. Give it back. You can't take it from me. I won't let you."

She stretched her pale ghostly arms out further, and the book Sam held was ripped from his hands, and smacked into the wall near the door, and fell to the floor with a dull thud. Sam was on his feet in an instant, grabbing for his shotgun.

"Think you can take it from me. Think you're so smart." She waved her hand, and sent Sam hurtling through the air. Sam slammed into the wall full-force, and crumpled to the ground. "I won't let you it's mine."

She raised her hand, and Sam felt himself being lifted once again into the air, an invisible force pinning him to the wall.

"Susan," he choked out, feeling as if she was wrapping her fingers tightly around his neck. "Not tryin' to take anything from you."

"Liar. It all comes down to words and lies." Her head jerked from side to side as she blinked rapidly. "Word and lies. My fault. You can't take it from me."

In a instant, she was at his side, cold fingers gently caressing his face. Her pale blue lips parted softly as she tilted her head to get a better look at him. On both her temples, Sam saw two distinct burn marks, just barely visible beneath her curls, and knew they came from Ellicott's treatment.

"I want to help you," Sam tried to reason, knowing it probably wouldn't do any good as she was so wrapped up in her own insanity.

Susan slanted her head to the other side, staring quizzically at him, pale blue-green eyes reflecting Sam's own face.

"Can't help. Can't think. There is a cold dark place in my mind. It is where my soul seeks comfort, but finds none. From shallow graves and sleepless nights I have somehow lost my way."

"I can help you find your way if you'll let me."

"No, you can't." She gripped on tightly to Sam's upper arm, her fingernails biting into his hoodie. "They say it's my fault. She's gone. It's my fault. You can't take it from me. They won't let you."

Although Sam knew Susan was a spirit, and knew he had to somehow destroy her, he couldn't help but feel sorry for her. She was just as lost as Dean was. He could see the same look of utter hopelessness and despair in her sorrowful blue-green eyes that he saw in his brother's eyes, and he wanted to make her pain go away as well.

"Who's gone, Susan? Where did she go?"

"From shallow graves and sleepless nights, she was taken from me. It's my fault. All my fault." She let out an ear-piercing scream, digging her nails deeper into Sam's arm, and even through his hoodie he felt blood ooze from the wounds she was creating in her anguish.

Sam thought of what Susan had written in her journal about the brown-haired girl who reminded her of James, and then it struck him as to where Susan's feeling of guilt stemmed from. "The brown-haired girl, she was your daughter, James' sister. She died?"

"My fault. Should've known . . . should've seen. Bo tried to stop it . . . tried to protect her."

"Protect her from what?" Sam asked, but had a feeling he already knew. Bo was a hunter, and if he was trying to protect Susan's daughter it could only be from one thing. Something supernatural had taken her child from her, Sam was sure of it.

"No!" She screamed, whipping him across the room. "You can't take it from me. They won't let you."

Sam slammed into the opposite wall, plaster crumbling around him. He groaned, his shoulder throbbing mercilessly from the force of impact against the unmoving object. Without having a moment to catch his breath, Sam found himself being toss through the air again, this time his back taking the brunt of the pain as he crashed into the frame of the bed.

His fingers slid over the smooth surface of the shotgun. Clutching it in a firm grip, he raised it, aiming at her, and fired. The blast echoed through the room, followed a horrific scream as Susan vanished in a cloud of thick gray smoke.

He sat there for a minute, stretching his sore muscles, circling his shoulders trying to work out the kinks as he thought about what had just happened. It wasn't the first time he'd shot a spirit full of rock salt, and he doubted it would be the last, but it was the first time he'd felt guilty at having to do so. Of course, he knew he hadn't had a choice in the matter, yet it still didn't quell the unsettling feeling in the pit of his stomach.

Susan was just like Dean. What had happened to her wasn't her fault. Her pain was no less real just because she was no longer amongst the living. Her guilt no less diminished as time wore on. The lines between her and his brother blurred together, their troubled minds, weighing heavily on the young hunter who needed to find the answers, and yet found only more questions needing to be answered.

Slowly, Sam made his way to his feet, groaning and cursing under his breath, at the jarring pain in his back and shoulder. "God, I hate this place. I vote we burn it to the freakin' ground when we're done here," he grumbled as he walked to the book, stooped and snatched it off the floor.

Before leaving to go to room 137, Sam tore open the book, and read the last page, needing to know what had driven Susan to kill herself.

_There is no peace. No forgiveness to be found. They will never leave me alone. Never let me rest. Can't take the noise. Can't erase what I've done. It has devoured me. Her shallow grave is all I have. Sleepless nights haunt me. All else is forgotten. He took it from me. Took it and left nothing but guilt. Tonight I shall find rest at long last. Have mercy on me. Wash away what I've done. Forgive . . . ._

Sam stared at the page for a few moments longer, allowing her desperate cries for help to sink in, knowing that Dean must feel exactly the same way. How long had she lived like this before finally succumbing to take her own life to rid herself of the pain? And how long would it be before Dean felt he had no other options either?

True, Mildred hadn't taken her own life, but what kind of life did she have? Locked in a room, away from anything she could use to hurt herself. Sam knew instinctively that he couldn't provide that kind of life for Dean. But if he couldn't save Dean, what other choice did he have? He couldn't have him committed. That wasn't even an option. Nor could they continue as they were now, not with his brother's mental state. So, Doctor Ellicott better have damn well figured out how to reverse the damage he'd caused. If he hadn't, Sam determined right then and there he would march through the gates of Hell to bring the sonuvabitch back to fix what he'd done.

With that in mind, Sam strode down the long corridor toward Doctor Ellicott's office. Halfway there he caught sight of a dark figure ducking in and out of the shadows created by the light streaming in through the barred windows. More and more darkened shadows started to fill the hallway, successfully blocking passage.

Susan reappeared directly in front of Sam at that moment, arms outstretched once more. "Mine. Give it back. It's mine."

"You can't take it from us. We won't let you," called out a taller man, who quickly took up residence at Susan's side. His pale gaunt face ravaged with time and decay. Dark blue-green eyes searching Sam's for recognition. "They say you should die. Say you are trying to take it from us. We can't let you."

Before Sam even had a chance to raise his gun, several spirits attack him, knocking him to the ground, and began clawing and tearing at his clothes and flesh. He reached for his gun, but the man standing next to Susan grabbed it, and threw it down the hallway, well out of reach.

"Said, you must die. Must pay for what you've done. All is as it should be. Secrets and lies. Words and lies. It's all the same. You have to die."


	11. Chapter 11

_hey, another new chappy up!! hope everyone is enjoying!! thnks for reading and all the awesome reviews!! they mean the world to me!! bambers;)_

_Chapter Eleven_

As Dean slowly dug his away out of the fog of unconsciousness, he immediately noticed two things. The first was that his head was pounding furiously as if someone had just taken a sledgehammer to it, and the second was that someone had tied him to a chair. Angrily, moving his shoulders from side to side, he felt sharp prickling pain rush down the length of both arms, and grimaced as the feeling returned to his fingers with a vengeance.

He glanced around the unfamiliar room, taking everything thing in, and trying to recall how he'd gotten there, but nothing came to him. Out of the corner of his eye, he spotted a older man wearing a baseball cap, brown flannel shirt and blue jeans, leaning against the wall, arms folded. The man didn't appear all that menacing, but Dean knew looks could be very deceiving, after all, he had tied Dean to a chair.

On second glance, Dean felt as if he should've known the man, or at the very least, had seen him somewhere before. The beginnings of a memory nagged at the back of his mind, one that begged to be released, and then a myriad of voices inside of his head overshadowed it, and it was lost.

"Who the hell are you?" Dean snarled, blinking rapidly against the growing pain in his temples. "And where am I?"

The man pushed away from the wall, and came to stand a few feet away from Dean. "Dean, I —"

"Who's Dean?"

The man looked slightly taken aback hearing that, and quickly supplied, "You're Dean."

That's not my name." Dean shook his head, scowling at him. "It's not. It's not. I would know it if it was. I would. You're trying to trick me. They sent you . . . want to make me think things that are not . . . but I am who I say I am."

Scrubbing his hand across his bearded face, the man let out a deep sigh. "Then who are you?"

Dean searched his memory, trying to come up with a name that sounded familiar. The pressure inside his head increased as nothing came to him. "You took it from me. Took my name. Took it all. Left me with nothing." Rubbing the side of his head against his shoulder in an effort to quell the stinging pain in his ears, he continued to blink in rapid succession. "Why are you doing this to me . . . why can't you . . . why can't I . . . please just make it stop. You have to make it stop."

"Listen, Dean," the man crouched in front of him, "your brother, Sam, went to stop them from hurting you anymore. You just need to hold on."

"Sam?" The name tumbled over and over again inside Dean's mind, mingling with the harsh unrelenting cacophony. Frantically, he tried to hold onto it, the subtle familiarity of it, clinging to the hope that whoever Sam was, he would make the pain go away. But like everything else, the name along with the shadowy image of a dark-haired young man the name conjured when he'd heard it, was swept away, and replaced with even more noise. "No," he shook his head, brows furrowing together as he tugged viciously on the ropes that held him prisoner, the coarse binds biting deeply into his wrists and ankles. "You're tryin' to trick me. Tryin' to take it from me. Tryin' to, but I won't let you. I'll kill you first."

Hearing that, the older man, stood and backed away slightly. The look in his dark eyes changed, becoming more threatening, and Dean knew he was right. This man was trying to hurt him, would kill him if he didn't somehow manage to escape.

"Dean, I'm Bobby. You know me," the man said, coaxingly, once again trying to confuse Dean. "I've known you most of yer life. I'm not tryin' to trick you or take anythin' from you. You have to believe me."

_He's lying. _The voices all converged inside his mind, screaming warnings and taunting Dean mercilessly. _Can't let him take it from you. He knows it's your fault. They all know. All of them. You are nothing. Nothing. The mirror breaks . . . shatters. Reflects your guilt . . . all gone because of you._

"No. No. No. No. You're lying. You are. I would remember . . . I would if I did . . . I would if you did. You're tryin' to confuse me. Make me think things. See things. But I can remember, and I can . . . and you're tryin to trick me."

The older man, Bobby, as he called himself, stared quizzically at Dean as if he didn't understand exactly what he was saying. _He knows. Can see inside your mind. Digging inside your head, rooting out all your secrets. It's his fault. Stop him. You have to stop him. He knows._

Dean tugged at the binds, sweaty fingers working away at the ropes and felt them slacken a little. His legs were still tightly bound, but if he could just untie the ones around his wrists, he knew he could break free when Bobby wasn't looking.

"Dean — "

"Not Dean. Told you. Not Dean. I would know if I was. I would."

"Okay," Bobby stated, and Dean could see that he was quickly losing his patience. "If yer not Dean, then who are you?"

Dean thought about it for a moment, searching for a name, trying to think of name that fit him. Searching for something sounding familiar enough as it rolled off his tongue, he would instantly recognize it as his own.

_You're nothing. Nothing, needs no name. It just is. Lives just to live. Consuming and destroying. Guilt eating away at it. You are nothing. That's your name._

"Nothing."

"Come again?" Bobby raised a brow, and if possible looked even more confused than he'd already appeared before Dean told him his name.

"Said my name was, Nothing," and as it rolled off his tongue, Dean knew it was right. It fit perfectly, and he couldn't understand why the older man thought it so strange.

Bobby slumped down on the bed, brushing his hand across his beard. As he sat there, Dean noticed a weariness in him, and as Bobby drew in a deep breath, slowly releasing it, Dean saw that his brown eyes glistened, but couldn't understand why.

"You're not, Nothing. You're Dean. Sam's older brother. John's eldest son," Bobby took another deep breath before continuing, "Dean. It's a name to be proud of. It's the name of a man who has risked his life more times, to save more people than I can even begin to tell you."

As he listened to Bobby describe this man, he found himself wanting to be him. Wanting it more desperately than he'd ever wanted anything, but then the voices converged once again to dash any hope he might've felt.

_He's a liar. Can't trust him. You are Nothing. Will always be Nothing. Stop him. Stop him before he kills you. Stop him or he will take it from you._

"Said I was Nothing. Said it. They won't let you trick me. Know what you're trying to do. If I say it, then it's true."

Dean fingers slid through the first of the rope loops, and felt blood ooze from beneath the binds. The older man had tied them tighter than Dean had thought, and now his wrists stung like a bitch, and were rubbed raw with rope burns. Yet, no matter how much they throbbed and burned, he kept at it, feeling them slide even further off his hands. In a few more minutes, he would be free, and then all he had to do was get his legs untied, and escape, but not before he took care of the man who was trying to hurt him.

"Listen, Dean. Sam, your brother," Bobby said pointedly, "he is out searching for a way to help you. He thinks something happened to you at the Roosevelt Asylum."

The ropes slipped free from Dean's hands, but now he needed to somehow distract the man so he could get to those tied around his ankles. "Water. Can I . . . thirsty. I . . . they said no. You . . . will you?"

Bobby's eyed him for a moment, and Dean was almost certain he would refuse to get him a drink, but the older man nodded, stood, and lumbered toward the bathroom. While he was gone, Dean made quick work of untying the ropes around his legs, and sprang to his feet, almost stumbling as prickling pain shot through them.

Mindless of the pain, he rushed toward the bathroom, and slammed his fist into Bobby's stomach just as he'd exited the room. The glass Bobby held, flew from his hand as he stumbled backwards into the doorframe.

Grabbing hold of Bobby's shirt, Dean whipped him around and drove his knee into Bobby's stomach. Bobby doubled over, trying to catch his breath.

"Dean, stop," he choked out. "Tryin' to help you."

"Liar."

Dean caught him under the chin with a powerful right hook, and Bobby's head snapped back. Advancing again, he raised his arm to strike, but Bobby caught hold of it, and twisted it, bringing his elbow down hard on Dean's forearm.

Biting back the cry of pain escaping his lips, Dean charged headlong into Bobby stomach. Bobby grasped hold of him, and they both went crashing to the floor. Rolling, Dean leapt on top of Bobby and smashed his fists into the man's face repeatedly. Driving his fist into Bobby's nose, Dean heard a sickening crack as blood spurted from the man's nose.

Bobby grabbed Dean's wrist mid-strike, yanked hard to the side, dislodging him. Scampering to his feet, Bobby swiped the back of his hand across his face, spitting out the a mouthful of blood.

Dean quickly leapt to his feet, fists raised, ready to strike. Watching his adversary wobble precariously on his feet, Dean knew instinctively that it wouldn't take too much more to do his opponent in. Yet, he hesitated. There was something in the man's eyes that gave him pause, it was the same feeling of familiarity that he'd felt early, he was almost certain of it. Some part of him didn't want to hurt the man who called himself Bobby. The man who called him Dean.

He clenched his fists even tighter, fighting every instinct that told him to kill the man. "Don't wanna . . . I don't know. Should know, but I don't. Why don't I know." Pressing the heels of his hands into his throbbing temples, he tried to drown out the voices, tried to push them back so he could think clearly. His body trembled with scarcely controlled rage and the effort to quell it.

"You seem . . . and I should . . . but I don't, and don't know why." Somewhere deep down inside, Dean knew he wasn't making any sense, and the cagy, quizzical look on the older man's face, told him that neither did he. "Just want it to stop. Can't take it anymore."

"Dean." Bobby took a cautious step in Dean's direction. His movements were slow and awkward, his back stiff with obvious pain. His nose continued to bleed profusely, covering his scruffy beard. "S-Sabm, he is tryin' do helb you. I'm tryin' do helb you."

"Sam?" Dean's gaze darted wildly about the room, searching for a signs of another person, but saw no one. "You're lying. Why are you lying. They said you would. Said you would. They all said it."

Bobby took a backward step, bringing his arms up, he bobbed them, in a calming gesture. "Dhis isn'd you. You jus' deed do calm down."

"No." Dean shook his head as he took a menacing step toward Bobby. "You don't know me. Don't know." Blinking rapidly, his thoughts jumbled and scattered away as the voices once again grew to an almost deafening level. "They said you need to die. They said it. Don't know . . . don't know. Can't think — can't think. Too hard. And it's too damn hard. And they say you should die."

Backing away even further, Bobby butted up against the wall. He reached behind his back, a movement that was not lost on Dean. Dean nodded in understanding. The voices were right. He needed to finish Bobby off now, before he had a chance to attack.

In an instance, he was on top of the older man, pummeling him with both fists. Grabbing his shoulders, Dean kneed him hard in the chest, and then slammed Bobby full force into the wall. Abruptly letting go, Bobby slumped to the floor. He glanced up at Dean, through one partially open eye. Blood dripped down from a deep cut above the other, his eyelid already swelling shut.

"Stob, D-Dean. Don'd know whad yer doin'."

Bobby's pleas went on deaf ears as Dean picked up a glass vase, and smashed it into the older man's head. His body jerked around for a few moments, his eyes fluttering briefly before they slid closed, and he went completely still.

_Good. He can't harm you now. Can't take it from you. _

Dean looked down at the man crumpled on the ground, and a slow smile slid across his features.

"Couldn't let you. They wouldn't let you. Had to stop you. Your fault. Not mine . . . not mine."

_Roosevelt. Other one. He will take it from you. They all want to stop you. Must stop him. _The voices inside his head warned, and Dean nodded in understanding.

Taking one last look at the man on the floor, Dean felt a twinge of remorse, but it quickly faded as he stooped, rummaged through Bobby's pockets and snatched his keys. He stood and stalked toward the door. "Roosevelt. Gotta stop him . . . gotta make sure he doesn't . . . if he does. They won't let him. They will stop him. I will stop him."


	12. Chapter 12

_anthother chappy up...sorry for the delay...life...ya know!! thanks for reading and for all the awesome reviews!! Working on the next chappy of Whispers in the Dark for any one who is wondering when it will be posted!! Hope everyone enjoys!! Love to hear what you all think!! bambers;) _

_Chapter Twelve_

Sam struggled in a vain effort to yank himself free of the ghostly spirits, but the more he tried, the more they all converged on him, their shrieking voices rang in his ears, uttering words he could not fathom. They clawed at his clothes, tearing them as they tried to reach the flesh below. He muffled a cry of pain as something hard struck his shoulder, and tilted his head back just in time to see a wheelchair speeding toward him at full-speed. Quickly curling to the side, his back took the brunt force of the impact, and he couldn't help the yelp of pain that escaped from his lips.

In that moment, through bleary eyes, he saw Susan and Bo towering over him. Crazed smiles adorned their faces, and he knew that even in their insanity, they believed he was no longer a threat, and the end was near. More objects were hurled in his direction, and Sam found it increasingly difficult to move as chairs, gurneys, IV poles and other things cluttering the hallway, struck into his unprotected back.

With extreme effort, he jerked his arm free from the forces holding it down, and reached behind his back, and yanked his .45 from his waistband. Not caring at the moment which spirit he struck first with the iron rounds, Sam aimed his gun and fired, one of the ghostly apparitions disappearing in a cloud of smoke and ash. Again and again, he fired until all his bullets were gone, and only Susan and Bo remained.

Their anger increased, and the air around Sam seemed to freeze, his icy breath coming out in soft billowy plumes. A chill raced down his spine as they advanced toward him. More objects propelled themselves at Sam, and once again his back took a brutal beating. Slowly, he crept backward, trying to keep an eye on both the angry spirits, and at the same time, search for his shotgun. Sweeping his hand across the dusty tiled floor, his fingers slid across the butt of the gun, and he let out a short sigh of relief.

His grip tightened around the smooth surface of the gun as he drew it nearer to him, still keeping his sights on the angry spirits, and just before they attacked, Sam raised his weapon, leveled it, and fired, dispelling Bo's spirit. Without hesitation, he cocked back the gun, and fired again, this time the salt round struck Susan square in the middle of forehead, and letting out a horrific screech, she disappeared in an explosion of gray ash.

Sam remained still for a few seconds, taking slow calming breaths as he searched the dark corridor for any signs of more spirits. Seeing nothing, and noticing that the temperature had suddenly dropped back to a normal level, he slowly made his way to his feet, wincing at the jarring pain in his back.

Taking one last look around and still finding nothing, he pushed one of the wheelchairs out of the way and lumbered onward toward room 137. Every muscle in his body screamed with the effort it took to keep him standing, and several times he was forced to stop and stretch to work out the kinks in his bruised back.

"Yep, we're so burning this freakin' place to the ground when this is all over, cause I'll be damned if we're coming back here again," he muttered to himself, although in the quiet of the corridor it seemed as if he were shouting.

Finally finding Doctor Ellicott's office, Sam opened the creaking door and stepped inside.

XxXxXxXxXxXxXxX

Dean sat behind the wheel of the old beaten-up truck, wondering who it belonged to, where exactly he was, and for that matter who he was. Nervously toying with the silver ring on his finger, he desperately tried to recall any of those things, but all that managed to accomplish was to make his head pound all the fiercer. _Should know my own name. Should at least know that much. Why can't I think of it?_

Quickly searching his pockets, Dean found his wallet and opened it. The first thing he noticed was that there were several credit cards, all bearing different names on them. He then pulled out three separate driver's licenses, all for different states, and again all with different names on them, yet all had his picture plastered on the front. _Okay, so not helpful. _

Throwing the wallet aside in aggravation, he gently rubbed his sore wrist as he stared out the front windshield, searching for anything that looked even remotely familiar, but found nothing to spark a single memory. Dean leaned forward in his seat, his body pressing against the steering wheel as he stared up at the large building with the name Roosevelt Asylum etched in the stone over the archway. He sat like that for a few moments longer, trying to recall why the place should cause his stomach to twist into tight knots, but as before, nothing came to him.

He slid back against the worn leather seat, and glanced down at his bruised knuckles and the bloodstains on his clothes, and a tremor of fear rushed through him, not knowing who he'd hurt or in his delirium killed. He shook his head in disbelief and horror. Brusquely raking his fingers through his hair, he tried to imagine who he must've fought with, and his aggravation increased at not knowing what had happened, and the feeling that he did, indeed, murder someone.

_What did I do . . . what the hell did I do? I couldn't have kill anyone . . . I wouldn't do that — I wouldn't. _But even as he thought this, Dean somehow understood that he possessed the deadly skills required to take a man's life. He wasn't sure where he'd learned them from or why someone would want to teach him how to kill without regard, but he instinctively knew he could, and that thought terrified him as he continued to glare at his battered knuckles.

Flipping on the light in the vehicle, he yanked down the visor, found the registration papers for the truck, and read the name, Bobby Singer on it. "Bobby Singer?" He stared at it long and hard, letting the name roll over and over again inside his mind, but couldn't put a face to the name. "I must know him . . . have to know him. Why the hell can't I remember?"

Dean looked around the deserted street again, frantic to find some reasoning behind his memory loss. _Did I steal his truck? Did I kill him and steal his truck. Oh, God, what if I did? _Fear and panic gripped hold of his heart, and it began to race at lightning speed.

The paper he held shook as his hand trembled, and he let it slip from his grasp to land on the floor of the cab. His temples throbbed as a distant echo of a voice began to fill his mind. _No. No. No. No. Not again. Please, not again. I can't take it anymore. _Dean silently pleaded for the whispered murmurings to go away, but even as he did, they grew in intensity until any rational thought was inconceivable.

At nearly the same time, the sound of gunfire rang out through the quiet of the night, coming from somewhere inside the seemingly deserted building off to his right. The voices inside his head all converged, screaming inside his mind, beckoning him to stop the threat that lay hidden within the stone walls of the asylum.

_Stop him. He will take it from you . . . from us. You must kill him. It's his fault. Not yours . . . not yours._

Narrowing his eyes, Dean glared at the building, trying to imagine the unseen threat. His only thought hellbent on how to stop it before it had a chance to hurt him, and knew instinctively that it meant killing it, whatever it was. He made a quick search of the vehicle, found several weapons, and a deadly smile curled on his lips.

XxXxXxXxXxXxXxX

Sam sat at Ellicott's old desk, pouring over the journals he'd found stashed away in a hidden compartment in the wall. He might never have found them, but for once, it seemed as if luck had been on the youngest Winchester's side. Had he not accidentally dropped his flashlight, and noticed the narrow beam of light reflected on a crease running the lower length of the wall, he would have never found the hidden compartment, and upon further inspection all the journals and notes Ellicott had stored within.

The first leather-bound journal he's leafed through was filled entirely with medical experiments that the good doctor had performed in his secret room in the basement below. Gruesome pictures along with graphic details of surgical procedures he'd performed on the patients, littered the torn and yellowed pages. Sam's stomach twisted uncomfortably as he imagined the torture the patients at the asylum had suffered as Ellicott tried to_ cure _them of their illnesses.

But, unfortunately, nothing in the first book could possibly begin to explain what was happening to his brother, or why Susan, Bo or Mildred had gone insane. He threw it aside in frustration, and opened Ellicott's personal journal. Pressed between the first pages, he found a picture of Susan holding a newborn baby in her arms with Bo and James standing beside her. Sam picked up the photo, flipped it over, and read what was on the back. _Susan, Bo, and James, bringing baby Molly home from the hospital – 1962._

Pinching the bridge of his nose, Sam reflected on what he'd learned so far, and now added the image of what looked like a very happy family to the mix, and his aggravation grew. A couple of things he knew for certain, the first being that they hadn't remained happy, and the second was that Molly had somehow died, and Susan blamed herself. But how Molly had died and how Doctor Ellicott had become involved in the family's life still remained a mystery.

Sam put the picture in his pocket along with the other two, and hearing a noise, glanced over his shoulder to make sure he was still alone in the room. Breathing a quick sigh of relief upon finding that he was, he turned back and pulled his shotgun closer toward himself just in case.

He began reading through the pages of Dr. Ellicott's journal, and after several pages, finally came to the first entry pertaining to Susan. His brows pulled together first in confusion and then his eyes widened in understanding as he reread what the doctor had written.

_Susan, my beautiful loving wife, how could you take the life of our little girl? Why would you do such a thing? And how could you let your brother, Bo, make up some ridiculous story about demons killing our child? I can see the guilt in your eyes every time you look at me, and I now fear for James' life as well. Yet, I love you too much to allow you to go to jail for what you have done_. _And if it's the last thing I do, I will find a way to fix what's wrong with you, and take all the guilt away so we can regain what we've lost. _

Sam now understood why James had seemed so familiar to him, recalling the picture he'd seen of him and his father when he'd gone to James' office to do research on the Roosevelt Asylum. Absentmindedly, he wondered if James ever knew what his father had done to his mother or the other patients of the asylum, and decided he'd rather not know the answer to that question.

As he leafed through more pages, Sam read how Ellicott had researched into the part of the brain that controlled emotions called the amygdala. Sanford further detailed the limbic system and how it related directly to the responses of emotion and mood, noting how it corresponded to depression in a patient.

After several more pages, Sam noticed how the doctor's handwriting changed, becoming more frantic as a solution to his wife's depression and guilt eluded him. And finally there was mention of Bo which Sam read with an equal measure of interest and disgust.

_Bo has finally agreed to help me_. _Although he was reluctant to do so at first, I have found a way to convince him it is for Susan's own good. Threatening to turn him over to the police for the murder of Molly also seemed to hold a lot of sway over him. Bo considers himself a 'demon hunter' and filled Susan's brain with all his nonsense, and in the end, it is my belief that he is the direct cause of Molly's death. And if covering up the crime by burying Molly's body and then placing a missing persons report for her, means Bo is forced to help me, then it has all been worth it. _

Sam stared at the last part of the entry with shocked disbelief at how cold and callous of a disregard Sanford had held for his own daughter, and had actually used her death as a bargaining chip to get Bo to help him. He was further disgusted to find that Bo had agreed to help as long as Sanford paid him handsomely for each person he'd brought to the doctor for experimenting.

_But in the end, money was the deciding factor. Bo has always been a wayward drifter, skirting in and out of towns. He claims that in his line of work, it is necessary, but he doesn't fool me. The man has never held a decent job a day in his life, and I am quite sure if I did some digging I would find that he is no more than a two-bit thief. Yet, now he has fallen in love with Mildred Pierce and has determined that he wants to settle down, and needs money to do so. I have agreed to pay him a tidy sum for each person he brings to me for my experiments as I will not risk Susan's well-being until I am certain I have found a cure for her illness. _

It all made sense to Sam now. Two men who'd put their own needs and desires above anything else had ruined many people's lives, and now even in their deaths they were destroying Dean's. Anger rose within him as he thought of how much Ellicott's victims had suffered at his hands. His fingers trembled as he continued to flip through the pages, learning all the experiments Sanford had practiced on his unwilling patients, and how he'd released them when they were no longer of any use to him, knowing that their minds were damaged beyond repair.

But with Mildred, Sanford finally thought he'd found the cure he was looking for, and set about to perform the procedure on his wife. To his dismay, he'd found the cure was short lived and the consequences of his action, dire. Instead of deadening Susan's responses to guilt, he'd somehow managed to destroy her memories, past and present, and left only the guilt behind.

_I can not understand what went wrong. Susan was perfectly fine after the procedure, although she complained of headaches_ _for a short time afterward, but that was to be expected. But then her behavior changed rapidly, alternating between irrational and suicidal, and yet I can find no reason for it. Whenever I visit her, all she will say is that I tried to take it from her, and she wouldn't let me. They wouldn't let me. To this end, I am throughly stumped. I have tried everything within my power to fix what is wrong with her without success, and now find her illness is beyond repair. I will continue to try and help her, but fear that it will be all in vain. _

A short time afterward, he'd went to her room at the asylum to find that she'd committed suicide. Yet even with her death, that hadn't stopped Ellicott from performing experiments on Bo to try and determine the cause of why Susan's treatment hadn't worked. He'd detailed in his notes how he'd drugged the young hunter, and then performed cruel experiments on his mind. Reluctantly, not finding any solutions, Sanford set him free.

Later, Bo had been captured by the police and sent to prison for his crimes, only to be released into the Asylum's care when he'd become too unstable to remain in the confines of the prison. Once again Sanford, who had thought he'd made progress in his research, began torturing the hunter until Bo's fragile mind finally snapped. Doctor Ellicott's last entry was frantic as he detailed how the patients were rioting, and that Bo led them.

_There's no way out. The patients are rioting and have already killed several people. Bo is coming for me. I can hear him screaming my name and banging on the walls. He blames me for what happened when it's all his own fault. I tried to save Susan. She was my life, but there was just no cure. I have to find a way out of here. They're all coming for me . . . ._

Sam's heart sank into his stomach as he studied the entry again. _There's no cure. He damaged all their minds and never found a cure. And if he never found one, then Dean . . . . No! _He shook his head emphatically, not willing to believe he couldn't save his brother from this. _I'm gonna find a way. I just need a little more time. _

The sound of his phone ringing, brought Sam out of his dire thoughts and he quickly fished it out of his pocket, and answered.

"Hello?"

"Sam, id's Bobby," the old hunter replied in a weak, strange voice, and Sam couldn't help the tremor of fear that coursed through his body.

"What's wrong, Bobby? Something happen to Dean?"

"He — he escabed . . . need your helb, Sam."

"Did he hurt you?" Sam asked in a low, strained voice, noticing how Bobby was saying his words wrong.

"Yeah . . . bead ub pretty bad."

"I'll be right there."

"No, don't think so," came Dean's deadly calm voice from directly behind Sam, and Sam swung around in his chair to see his brother standing in the doorway holding a knife in his hand. "Your fault. All of it. They say it's yours not mine. Not mine."


	13. Chapter 13

So new chappy, sorry it took so long to write, but i just dread writing fight scenes...hopefully everyone enjoys!! thanks so much for reading!! let me know what you think, reviews are more precious than gold!! bambers;)

Sam eyed the knife in his brother's hand, and noticed the deadly gleam in Dean's eyes, and realized he was beyond reasoning with. He knew that in his delusional state, Dean wouldn't care if he killed him, and with the advantage of having a weapon at his disposal, Sam was left with only one alternative. His saw-off shotgun. It was filled with rock salt so he knew it wouldn't kill Dean, but Sam still hated the idea of shooting his brother with it again, and quickly searched his mind for other options.

His hand slid backward on the desk, fingers curling around the smooth handle of the gun, and slowly drew it forward, never breaking eye contact with his brother. He didn't plan on using it unless it was absolutely necessary, but wasn't about to let his brother slice him to pieces either. In one quick fluent movement, he grabbed it off the desk, raised it and aimed for Dean's chest.

Dean's gaze shifted momentarily to the weapon now pointed at him, then trained his sights back on Sam. He took a slow deliberate step toward Sam, his fingers tightening around the hilt of the blade, and Sam finger tensed on the trigger.

"Dean, you have to stop this," Sam tried to reason. "You have to fight this. Don't want to hurt you."

"Not, Dean . . . I'm not . . . you need to die. You did this to me. You did." Dean's head jerked awkwardly to the side, his eyes squeezing shut for a brief moment as if he were in pain, then he opened them again, blinking rapidly. "Said you would take it from me . . . said you would . . . leave me empty . . . take it all."

"Take what from you, Dean?" Sam's finger eased up on the trigger as he stared his brother, trying to make sense of his fears. "What the hell do they say I'm gonna take from you?"

"Tryin' to trick me. Make me think you don't know. You do." Dean words came at a more frantic pace as he took another step toward Sam."You need to die." Narrowing his eyes, Dean glared at Sam with such intense hatred, Sam had no doubt he meant to kill him if Sam gave him the opportunity.

"Please, Dean, don't make me shoot you."

Dean cocked a sardonic brow, his lips a grim line as he scowled at Sam. "Won't get the chance." He lunged at Sam, his knife aimed directly at Sam's heart.

Sam quickly fired off a warning shot, stopping his brother momentarily in his tracks as a spray of rock salt whizzed by his right shoulder. He raised the gun and aimed it at Dean's chest, finger on the trigger. "I will shoot you if I have to, Dean, don't think for a minute that I won't."

Turning his head to look behind him at the pock marks in the plaster wall left behind by the salt, Dean turned back and glared at Sam. "Not real bullets," he glanced down at the knife he held, "real knife however," he grinned ominously and before Sam had a chance to fire off another shot Dean charged him.

Quickly dropping the shotgun, Sam caught hold of his brother's arm mid-strike and twisted it, bringing his elbow down hard against Dean's forearm. The knife fell from Dean's grasp and landed with a clatter on the dusty floor.

Bending forward slightly, Dean whipped back, slamming his head into Sam's and knocking him backward. Quickly steadying his balance, Sam narrowly dodged a right hook to the face, and landed a well placed kidney shot. Dean jerked to the side, letting out a groan.

"Son of a. . . ." Dean's voice trailed off as he caught Sam's fist mid-strike, and slammed a power punch into Sam's gut.

Stumbling backward, Sam expelled a rush of heated air. Not allowing him to catch his breath, Dean advanced again, with a jab to the chest followed quickly by an uppercut to the jaw. Sam staggered for a moment, regained his balance and smashed his fist into his brother mouth.

Angrily, Dean swiped away the blood that trickled down his chin with the back of his hand as he glared at Sam. They circle, clenched fists raised, both vying for an opening. Suddenly Dean's fist darted out, aimed directly at Sam's throat, but at the last possible second Sam wove to the side, shifted his weight slightly, and slammed his fist into his brother's side.

Arching to the side, Dean let a crazed sounding snarl, pivoted on his heel, and viciously attacked Sam. Again and again he slammed his fists into Sam's stomach and chest, catching him in the face a few times, each blow staggering Sam as he valiantly tried to defend himself against the onslaught.

Another well place shot to the ribcage had Sam tumbling backwards, and he tripped over the shotgun, and fell to the floor. Dean quickly leapt on top of him and continued to smash his fists into Sam's already bloodied face. Sam's head snap back and forth with the force of each blow, his mind swimming, vision blurring, and he feared he would lose consciousness before to long if he didn't figure out a way to escape.

Out of the corner of his eye, he spied Dean's knife, and quickly grabbed for it. Fingers closing around the hilt of the blade, Sam lashed out at Dean, catching him in the upper arm. Dean jerked back, eyes wild as he looked to the bloodied wound. Seizing the opportunity, Sam bucked Dean off of him, and grabbing for the shotgun, he leapt to his feet. Dean shot to his feet, glaring at the gun in Sam's hand that was aimed directly at his chest.

"Gonna shoot me," he snarled, "go ahead, can't kill me with that thing."

"No, Dean, don't want to kill ya," Sam pulled the trigger, the blast echoing through the room as his brother flew backward, the rock salt splaying into his chest, "just have to stop you before you kill me."

Guilt racked Sam's heart at once again shooting his brother, but Dean had left him no other alternative. With that guilt also came a sense of undeniable dread knowing Sanford hadn't found a cure, and if there was no cure then Sam needed to face the very real possibility that he would have to have Dean committed. Dean was just too dangerous not too consider it. But Sam would put that off as long as possible, would wait until he'd exhausted every possible alterative, and then would wait some more.

For now, however, he needed to make sure Dean couldn't harm him or Bobby anymore, and he could think of only one way, although he hated the idea. Rummaging through Ellicott's office, Sam practically turned the place inside out to find something to restrain his brother. On the floor in the corner hidden beneath a pile of discarded books, papers, and other medical supplies, he spied an old straight jacket and snatched it up.

Sam headed back over to where his brother lay on the ground, dropped to his knees, grabbed hold of one of his brother's arms, and worked it through the sleeve of the tight fitting garment. When he finished with the first, he did the same with Dean's other arm, making sure there was no slack in the material which might allow for escape. Pulling Dean into a sitting position, Sam worked quickly to anchor the sleeves through the backstraps, yanking firmly on the material to make certain it was snug fitting, and buckled it in place. After he'd finished that, he laid his brother on his side, and wove another strap through his legs, and secured that one through another buckle in the back of the straight jacket.Double-checking to make sure there was no slack in the garment, Sam was satisfied that Dean would more than likely not be able to escape from it.

Dean groaned, shifting uncomfortably in the confining garment, working his shoulders side to side, trying to move. Slowly, he blinked open his eyes, and frantically looked around in a crazed manner. His gaze then settled on Sam, and turned deadly as he uselessly jerked his arms around inside the sleeves of the straight jacket.

"Let me out of these," Dean snarled, kicking out at Sam.

Sam sadly shook his head, and no longer able to tolerate the look of pure hatred in his brother's eyes, looked away. "Sorry, Dean, I can't do that."

"Gonna kill you, you sonuvabitch!" Dean's tone grew more fervent as he turned on his side then rolled onto his stomach.

"I know, Dean," Sam said in a voice barely above a whisper, "that's why I can't take them off."

Drawing his knees up toward his stomach, Dean pushed his bound arms against the ground and pulled himself into a kneeling position. Within a moment he was on his feet, and with a sudden angered cry, he bound at Sam slamming into him full-force. Knocked off balance, Sam careened backward into Ellicott's desk.

Not giving him a change to recover, Dean turned slightly and kicked Sam square in the stomach. His foot barely touched the ground when he snapped it up a second time and landed another shot to Sam's gut. Doubling over, a rush of air escaped Sam's lips.

"Stop, Dean, don't want to hurt you," Sam uttered breathlessly.

Using the only means left available to him for fighting, Dean kicked out again, his booted foot connecting just above Sam's right knee. A pain-filled groan erupted from somewhere deep inside Sam, and he launched himself at Dean, sending them both crashing to the ground. Sam quickly rolled and leapt on top of Dean, smashing his fists into his brother's face repeatedly.

Dean thrashed wildly trying to dislodge him as his head jerked back and forth with the force of the blows. Drawing up his legs, Dean bucked hard, and Sam flew forward, his forearms coming forward to protect himself from slamming into his brother's face. Within an instant, Dean latched onto Sam's skin with his teeth, biting down hard. Blood trickled down Sam's arm as Dean gnashed his teeth into Sam's flesh.

Drawing back his fist, Sam bashed it into Dean's cheek, and when Dean's teeth clamped tighter around his skin in response, Sam slammed it into his face again. Dazed by the intensity of the blows, Dean's jaw slackened, and Sam yanked his bloodied arm free.

Crazed green eyes peered into Sam's hazel ones, and in that brief exchange, Sam knew his brother had lost the battle, had become just like Bo, Mildred and Susan. Broken hearted, Sam slowly got to his feet, and searched the room for something to bound his brother's legs with.

Near the desk, he found a roll of duct tape on the floor, and bent to pick it up. As he did, he noticed a torn piece of paper on the floor, written in very familiar handwriting. He picked it up and stared at it for the longest time, wondering how it could have possibly gotten in Ellicott's office.

There were only a few words written on the yellowed piece of journal paper, but he knew they were important. His father wouldn't have written them if they weren't. And as he reread the words, _Your mind tricked you to feel the pain_, he knew his father had figured out how to cure Dean, and also knew it was somewhere in the journal and book he'd stolen from Mildred.


	14. Chapter 14

_so, at long last a new chappy, sorry it took so long!! thanks so much for reading and for all the awesome reviews so far!! bambers;)_

_Chapter Fourteen_

Sam made quick work of binding his brother's legs together with the duct tape he'd found on the floor, counting himself lucky that Dean had only gotten in a few well-placed kicks in the process.When he was finished, he hauled his brother to his feet, and set him down in Ellicott's worn leather chair.

With that accomplished, he looked over the piece of paper he'd found again, trying to decide what his father had meant by it. It had to have something to do with Mildred's book or journal, he was almost certain of it. But Bobby had both of them back at the motel, and Sam wasn't sure how he was going to get them if Bobby was as bad off as Sam thought he might be.

He knew trying to leave the asylum with Dean would be nearly impossible to do with Susan, Bo and all the other angry spirits still lurking around the building. Not to mention that Dean would more than likely fight him all the way down the stairs and through the asylum, and Sam was nearing the end of his strength, and truthfully didn't think he could manage it.

His attention was momentarily diverted to Dean as out of the corner of his eye he saw his brother struggle against the straight jacket, a murderous gleam in his wild green-eyed glare. Trashing violently, Dean tried to kick out at Sam, but only managed to slide down a little further in the chair.

"Gonna rip your freakin' throat out with my own hands," Dean snarled. "They told me you would do this . . . told me you would . . . they said . . . " a vicious laugh ripped from his lips, "gonna laugh when I see the blood rush from your veins . . . then gonna tear you apart piece by piece."

Sam turned his back on Dean, mentally trying to block out what his brother was saying, forcing himself not to listen. But as his brother's rants grew more violent and evil sounding in nature, Sam swung back to glare at him.

"Gonna carve ya up in little tiny pieces an' bury ya in the walls . . . in the walls . . . they bury them all in the walls . . . the walls are filled with them . . . rotting souls . . . decaying flesh," Dean glanced up at him and mercilessly laughed, "an' then there will be you."

"You'd never get the chance," Sam growled furiously, nearing the end of his mental and physical endurance.

Dean leaned forward in his seat, never taking his sights off of Sam. "Wanna bet?" he said in a low dangerous tone that was so similar to his normal voice, Sam was forced to take an involuntary backward step.

For a brief moment the wild crazed look was gone from his brother's eyes, and it was Dean looking at him. For a split second he was once again Dean the hunter, killer of ungodly creatures, the man who didn't know how to quit, and that thought sent a shiver of panic racing through Sam's spine. And then as quickly as the look appeared on his brother's face it disappeared as Dean began to ramble incoherently once more.

For the longest time he just stood there and stared at his brother, not understanding a word Dean said, and realized for the first time that even if he could find a way to cure him, Dean might never be the same again. His brother's mind had fractured into too many pieces, and undoubtably there would be lasting affects. All Sam could hope for now was that one day Dean might find his way back to being the man he'd always been before.

But for now, he needed to get those books from Bobby. With no other options left available to him, Sam decided he should at least give the older hunter a call to see if he could manage the drive before Sam tried to figure out a different plan. Sam trudged over to the desk, snatched his phone off of it, and jabbed the button to call Bobby. The older man answered within the first two rings.

"Sabm?" Bobby asked, concern evident in his trembling, nasally tone.

"Yeah, it's me." Sam hesitated, wondering if he should really ask the injured hunter to drive in his condition, but quickly searching his mind for any other alternatives, Sam realized he had no other choice. "Bobby, think you could bring the journal and Mildred's book to the asylum? Wouldn't ask ya, but just can't think of another way to get them otherwise." Sam heard a muffled grunt of pain coming from the other end of the line, and mentally kicked himself for asking Bobby for help when he was in no condition to go anywhere except a hospital. "I'll figure out another way to get the books, Bobby, you need to get to a hospital."

"Alreaby on by way ta da asylum . . . shoulb de there in a coudle of minudes." Bobby was silent for a moment, and Sam could hear another pain-filled groan escape the hunter's mouth, before he finally continued, "Pullin' ondo the streed dow."

"You sure you're okay, Bobby? You don't sound very — " the words left him abruptly as he heard the sound of screeching tires and then a loud crash coming from somewhere outside of the building.

Sam rushed to the barred window with heart hammering away inside his chest. Taking a quick look outside, he saw Bobby's truck, the front-end of the vehicle crumpled around a light pole, and spun on his heel and darted for the door.

"Won't be here when you get back . . . they said it, said I'll be gone. Gonna take me . . . you'll see . . . nothin' left," came a dire sounding warning from Dean.

Sam hesitated with his hand on the doorknob as he glanced back in Dean's direction, torn between helping Bobby and staying there to make sure his brother would be all right. But without the books that at this moment were Sam's only hope to help Dean, he understood his brother was already lost to him. Reluctantly he headed out the door, calling back over his shoulder, "Gonna save you, Dean, just like I promised, an' nothing's gonna stop me from doing that."

XxXxXxXxXxXxXxX

Sam rushed out of the building and over to Bobby's car. The older man was slumped over the steering wheel, not moving. Sam's heart skipped a beat as he stopped short, fearing his long time friend was dead. A subtle movement coming from inside the truck caught his keen gaze and he was moving again, rushing toward Bobby.

He yanked on the crumpled door and finally managed to wedge it open enough to get inside. "Bobby, you okay?" he asked in a breathless rush as he quickly checked the older man over, searching for injuries.

"Jus' hit by heab," Bobby muttered almost incoherently. "I'll be okay."

"I'm so sorry for this, Bobby." Sam's stomach clenched painfully as he noticed how bruised and battered Bobby was and knew deep down that Dean was the cause of most of the older man's injuries. "This is all my fault, shouldn't have gotten you involved in this."

"Nod yer fauld," Bobby weakly grumbled as Sam carefully helped him out of the car. "Cabe here on by own." He winced as he gingerly touched his broken nose. "Jus' hobe these books helb yer brother so I cad kick his ass whed he's bedder." Reaching back inside the vehicle, Bobby grabbed the two books off the floor of the truck, and handed them to Sam.

"Thanks, Bobby."

Sam glanced down at Mildred's worn journal, leafed through it for a moment and then yanked out her unfinished novel from beneath it. Slack-jawed, he stared at the title, _Your Mind Tricked You to Feel the Pain_, in disbelief. It couldn't have just been a coincidence that his father had written the same exact words on the paper that Sam found, and knew instinctively the answers he needed were buried somewhere within the pages of the yellowed manuscript.

"This has to be it, it has to have the answers I need, Bobby." He glanced back in the direction of the massive stone structure, and then looked once more to Bobby. "Gotta call an ambulance for you, then get back inside to Dean."

"M'okay . . . Goin' wib you," Bobby replied determinedly. "Been lookin' through tha' book an' yer gonna neeb by helb if I'b understandin' it correctly."

"You're sure, Bobby," Sam asked, eyeing the injured man, and knew from the look in his eyes that Bobby wasn't going to take no for an answer.

"Yeah, I'b sure."

"Alright," Sam said with a deep sigh, "but be careful, Bobby . . . I mean, there are a lot of them in there, and Dean's just . . . ." his voice trailed off as he thought of how far gone his brother really was. "He's just not the same."

Bobby gave a curt nod, and winced with the effort. Together they headed back inside the asylum. No more than a few feet inside the door, they both heard the sound of Dean screaming at the top of his lungs. Dean's heart-wrenching cries echoed throughout the darkness of the institution, and filled Sam's insides with fear for his brother's life. Without giving any thought to Bobby or all the vengeful spirits he knew to be around, Sam dashed up the steps, taking them two at a time.

XxXxXxXxXxXxXxX

Dean watched the dark-haired man leave the room as he continued to struggle against the straight jacket that held him a prisoner. For the briefest of moments, the younger man had looked slightly familiar, but then the voices filled his mind once more to overshadow any memories that still lingered at the back of his mind.

Dark shadows seeped through the door, walls, and up through the dank floors boards, all edging closer to Dean, all speaking in rapid succession. Their words mingled together with the ones inside his mind, growing louder and louder until he felt as if his head might explode, and for a moment wished that it would. Closer they came slowly taking the forms of men and women with gaunt faces, sunken ghostly gray eyes, and long spindly fingers.

One woman with flowing blond hair and pale blue-green eyes stepped forward, and bent slightly to look directly at him. She tilted her head from side to side, a puzzled expression on her face as she continued to gaze at him, then she smiled and nodded to the others.

"At long last," she uttered as tears slipped down her cheeks, "There is a cold dark place in all our minds. Where our souls have sought comfort, but have found none. From shallow graves and sleepless nights we had somehow lost our way . . . until now. With you we are at long last set free." With that said, she leaned in and kissed Dean on the lips.

Stark white-hot pain ripped through Dean's mind, a cry of pain erupting from his lips as the kiss deepened. As she slowly faded away, shadowy images of things he couldn't quite make out converged with the voices inside his head to crush him beneath the weight of all of her guilt. With a faint smile, she vanished in a trail of wispy white smoke, but he could still feel her inside his mind, her pain and torment now his own.

The rest moved forward all placing their withered bony hands on Dean. His head shot backward, eyes squeezing tightly shut as he screamed over and over again against the vicious onslaught of their tortured emotions. One by one they all entered his mind and disappeared in spirit.

Writhing in his chair, Dean struggled in vain against the last few remaining spirits, the straight jacket keeping him securely bound and at their mercy. Eyes rolling backwards into his head, he jerked spasmodically as the clamourous voices inside his mind became too much for him to endure any longer.

Tears slipped down his cheeks unchecked as he relived all their darkest moments. Their pain now Dean's pain, his mind splitting and fracturing to accommodate all their overwhelming guilt. With a pathetically weak whimper, Dean fell from his chair and curled into a tight ball as the last of the spirits disappeared in a swirl of gray smoke.


	15. Chapter 15

_so, last chappy!! hope everyone enjoyed the story as much as i loved writing it!! thanks for reading and for all the awesome reviews!! bambers;) ...tried to post this a week or so ago, but fanfic wasn't working so sorry it is late in coming!! thanks again for reading!!_

_Chapter Fifteen_

Sam burst through the door of Doctor Ellicott's office, cast aside the books he was carrying, rushed to where Dean was lying on the ground curled up tightly, and dropped to the floor beside him. He'd seen his brother injured many times before in his life, but never had he heard Dean whimperlike he was doing now. Usually no matter how severe the injury, Dean had remained stoically strong never wanting Sam to know the full extent of his suffering. Now it was as if Sam wasn't even in the room with him. An in truth, Sam believed that Dean really had no idea that he was.

"Dean?" Sam questioned in a low voice as not to frighten Dean anymore than he already appeared to be. Dean glanced up at him, his expression wild and cagy, glassy green eyes darting back and forth rapidly as he continued to softly moan. Slowly Sam moved closer to his brother much in the same way as he would do with a terrified child. Gathering Dean into his arms, Sam felt his brother's body jerk and tremble, but he made no attempt to move away. "It's okay, Dean, I gotcha. Not gonna let anything hurt ya anymore."

"Sabm?" Bobby called from the doorway. He took one look at Dean and a deep regretful sigh escaped his lips. Brows furrowing, Bobby narrowed his sights on Sam, and Sam could tell by that single expression that the older hunter thought Dean was too far gone to be able to help him. "I'b sorry, Sabm."

"No," Sam shook his head emphatically, tears brimming in his eyes, "he's gonna be okay, I got the books an' he's gonna be okay . . . Dad wouldn't have wrote the name of the damn book down if it wasn't important."

"Reab through the book, think it's a long shod ad besd." Bobby grimaced as he bent down and grabbed the book off the floor. "Nod do mention risky if id does work." He trudged to Sam, stopping short when Dean fearfully shied away from him, and held out Mildred's manuscript for Sam to take. "Here, reab id."

Sam hesitated, terrified that Bobby might be right and that he was just grasping at straws. And maybe he was, but he would be damned if he didn't at least try no matter how futile it might be. He opened the leather bound pages, and began reading.

As he quickly skimmed the pages, Sam was at first surprised to find out that the book detailed Mildred's affair with Bo, although she'd changed their names in an attempt to protect her family from embarrassment. He was also impressed with all the knowledge she'd added about the secret world of hunting demons, spirits, and other creatures. Bo must have shared everything he knew about hunting with her, which to Sam's amazement was quite a lot. In fact there were things she'd written about that Sam had never heard of before, but had no doubt from the way she'd spoken of them that they were true.

Delving further into the story, Sam read about Mildred's pregnancy and subsequent abortion. From the tear stains on the withering pages, he realized how much it broke her heart to give up her baby and at the same time leave Bo. From there, the story turned darker, chronicling the brutality she'd endured at the hands of Doctor Ellicott, and how Bo had helped him.

Sam's father had highlighted the next section, and as he read through it for a second time he recalled being trapped in the basement of the asylum with Ellicott.

_Gently, almost lovingly, Doctor Ellicott placed his hands on the sides of her face. Tears slipped down Ashley's cheeks as the crazed man softly uttered, "Don't be afraid. I'm going to help you. I'm going to make you all better." _

_It was always the same. No matter how many times one of his experiments failed, no matter how many times Ashley endured his cruel torture, Ellicott always said the same words. And after a while, it was as if the words had taken on an almost hypnotic-like quality. And if she said them over and over again inside her mind, Ashley could almost feel her guilt and sadness wash away._

Sam glanced down at Dean, who hadn't spoken a word since Sam and Bobby had come back to Ellicott's office, and wondered if Ellicott had said the same thing to him. And if it had been a hypnotic suggestion that Ellicott had given them, then why had all his patients gotten worse rather than better?

Skipping down to the next section his father had highlighted, Sam continued reading.

"_Please don't let him do this to me anymore," Ashley cried out to Markus as Doctor Ellicott strapped her down to the operating table. Markus lowered his head, turning away as the doctor carefully placed electrodes on either side of her head. Intense blue light stung at her eyes, but Ellicott had taped them open, and no matter how much Ashley squirmed she could not break free of the offending light or the electrical volts surging through her brain. _

Sam pensively bit at his lower lip as he remembered the blue light emanating from Ellicott'shands after he'd placed them on the sides of Sam's face. An involuntarily shudder escaped him as he also recalled the electrical charge coursing through his body and mind.

"Find anyding useful yed?" Bobby asked, as he wearily paced back and forth.

"Think I'm beginning to understand what he did to them," Sam replied, looking up at Bobby, "But nothing yet on how to reverse it."

"Flib to the lasd few pages," Bobby gestured at the book, and motioned for him to turn to the end of the story. "Think thad's whad yer dab found interesding."

Sam flipped to the end of the book, and scanned the pages until he found another highlighted section.

_Ashley's mind had tricked her to feel the pain of guilt so fierce and vile it ate away at her until there was nothing left. But Markus had found the answer that the doctor had not been able to. To end her suffering he needed to release her from her guilt_. _He knew it wouldn't be easy, she'd guarded her guilt, coveting it as if it were a thing to be cherished. 'You're trying to take it from me, but I'm not gonna let you,' Ashley would often scream out to him as she descended further into madness._

Sam thought of all the times Dean had said the same thing to him, and now understood what he'd meant by it. All the entries in Dean's journals, starting with the one about Burkitsville right after Roosevelt, had spoken of things he'd felt guilty about. He recalled one of the very first entries speaking of the night Dean had left Sam alone by the side of the road and drove away. Dean had blamed himself for that even though it had been Sam's fault.

With each passing incident, Dean's guilt had racked up upon itself until there was nothing else left. Sam could see that clearly now, could see how that much guilt along with Ellicott's medical experiments could tear away at a person until it drove them insane. He also realized why someone like Dean would be susceptible to Ellicott's so-called guilt therapy as his brother had always carried the weight of the world on his shoulders, blaming himself every time they hadn't been able to save someone or if Sam got injured.

After Dean had salted and burned Ellicott's remains, Sam now realized that there had been an almost fearful look on Dean's face when he'd covered his head with his arms and shied away from the spirit. Fearful, not like the rage Sam had felt after what Ellicott had done to him, and was momentarily surprised that thought hadn't occurred to him before now.

He looked down at the manuscript again, and read through the final paragraph on the page.

_So placing his hands on the sides of her face, he looked into her eyes and lovingly spoke the words, "Don't be afraid. I'm going to help you. I'm going to make you all better." Her body relaxed almost as if on cue, and then he proceeded. Blue light gleamed from his fingertips as he spoke to her of all the things that were not her fault, taking the blame unto himself. _

Sam turned the page to read on, but found it was blank. He looked up at Bobby who was standing stock-still seemingly waiting for him to say something. "Think it will work, Bobby? Think if I can take his guilt away, Dean will be back to normal?"

Bobby scrubbed his hand across his bearded face, wincing as he touched his split lower lip, and then shrugged. "Dunno, bud id's all we've god."

With a curt nod, Sam shifted slightly to look down at Dean who still trembled in his arms. Fearfully, Dean tried to push away from him, but the straight jacket and duct tape around his ankles kept him from moving more than a few inches at best.

Gently as not to terrify him any more than he had to, Sam placed his hands on either side of Dean's face and looked him in the eyes. "Don't be afraid. I'm going to help you. I'm going to make you all better," he said, in a low comforting tone, mimicking what Ellicott had said to Dean and all the rest of his patients.

Almost instantaneously, Dean's body relaxed, the tension and fear easing from his features as his pupils dilated slightly. "Dean, the night in Burkitsville, that was my fault not yours. The blame is totally mine."

Dean slowly shook his head, trying once again to move away, but Sam removed his hands from Dean's face and wrapped his arms firmly around his brother to stop him.

"I left you, not the other way around." For a moment he hesitated, waiting to see if his admission had any affect on his brother. Not noticing any improvement, Sam drew in shaky breath and continued onward, "Dad . . . what happened to him . . . that was my fault. I should have realized what he was doing, should've seen it, but I didn't. I could have stopped him, but I was too damn angry to see what he planned to do. It was never your fault, always mine."

"Sabm," Bobby called out to him.

Sam briefly turned to face Bobby and saw him nudge his head in the direction of Sam's hands. Glancing at his fingers, he stared in awe at how they gleamed with an intense blue light. Breathing a sigh of relief, he once again placed his hands on Dean's face, now positive that it would work.

"Every bad thing . . . every time someone got hurt or died while we were out on a hunt . . . that was my fault, not yours — " Sam stopped short hearing the door to Ellicott's room slam shut of its own accord. An icy chill filled the air, a frosty breeze sending papers scattering across the room. "Never your fault, always mine," he shouted above the sounds of books and chairs crashing to the floors.

"NO!" Dean screamed, shaking his head from side to side, eyes squeezed tightly shut.

"My fault, Dean, not yours!" Sam hollered even louder as Ellicott's chair slammed into his back. "Always my fault, never yours!"

"No! Not yours," Dean cried out, twisting and writhing in a desperate attempt to get away from Sam. "Can't let you!"

"Keep goin', Sabm," Bobby ordered as he tried to knock away objects being hurtled in Sam's direction away from him. "Id's workin."

"Everything that has ever happened to us, Mom dying . . . Dad, it's all my fault, Dean." A heavy book smashed into the back of Sam's head and fell to the floor beside him, but he continued onward as if he hadn't felt it."Not yours, never yours . . . always mine."

"No, Sammy!" Dean screamed, squirming to break free from Sam's grip on his face. "You can't do this. You can't take it from me!"

Hearing Dean call him by name and feeling heat rising from his fingers, Sam pushed forward, "I'm the reason Mom and Dean are dead. I'm the reason our lives are so screwed up, not you. Our whole lives have been my fault. Not yours. Never yours."

"Sammy, stop," Dean cried out, tears slipping down his cheeks, "it's gonna kill you."

"Never yours, Dean."

A sudden intense electrical charge surged through Sam's fingertips, quickly racing up his arms and through his spine towards his brain. Sam's head shot back, body convulsing uncontrollably as his eyeballs rolled backward into his head. His mind split and fractured as the torrent of electricity continued to inundate his body. Memories not his own, filled his mind and then were cast aside as the pain became too much to endure. His body jerked forward, his hands falling away from Dean as an onslaught of even more pain and guilt overwhelmed him, his mind breaking apart thoroughly. Eyes closing, Sam's head lolled to the side as he fell backward to the floor, and lay there unmoving.

"Sam," Dean called out to him, trying desperately to get to his little brother. "Sammy!" he tried again but Sam didn't move, didn't respond. "Oh, God, Sammy, what the hell did you do?"

Dean glared up at Bobby, then nudged his head toward the straight jacket holding him prisoner and keeping him from Sam. "Get me out of this thing. Now!"

Bobby hurried to remove the straight jacket and the duct taped wrapped around Dean's ankles. As soon as he was done, Dean slid over to where Sam was and gathered his little brother up into his arms. "Come on, Sammy," he pleaded, more tears cascading down his cheeks, "you got to wake up for me." When Sam still failed to move, Dean shifted his head to glare at Bobby. "Why the hell did you let him do this? You don't know what you've done."

"Tried to stob him, he wouldn't listen," Bobby quickly defended as he knelt beside Dean and Sam.

"Wasn't just my guilt he took. He took all theirs too. All of it." Dean held Sam even closer, his heart clenching painfully as the full impact of what Sam had just taken on struck him momentarily speechless.

"Whad are ya talkin' aboud?" Bobby quirked a brow, puzzlement warring with concern on his features. "Dodn't understand."

"They needed to get rid of their guilt to move on. I took on that guilt for them, an' now . . . ." Dean's voice trailed off as he looked once again to Sam. "They've moved on, and now Sam . . . oh, God, why did he do this."

Dean gently shook Sam, trying to wake him, but Sam remained deathly still. "Come on, Sammy, wake up for me, just let me see those big hazel puppy dog eyes."

Not knowing what else to do, Dean tried the same thing that Sam had done to bring him back, but no matter how hard Dean tried, nothing happened. "What the hell am I supposed to do, Bobby?" He looked to the older hunter for help, but Bobby just sadly shook his head. "This is all my fault," Dean muttered as he rested his head against Sam's. "Why couldn't he have just let me go."

"Nod yer fauld, if yer gonna blame anyone, blame Ellicott. He did this."

"Not givin' up on him, Bobby," Dean said determinedly, shaking Sam a little harder. "Listen to me, Sammy, you have to wake up now. Ain't gonna let you do this to yourself." Dean shook him even harder. "Damn it, I know you can hear me so wake the hell up," he ordered, using his most authoritative tone. Slowly, Sam's eyelids fluttered open briefly then closed again. "That's it, you can do it, don't let the sonuvabitches win. You fight them, you hear me, Sammy? You fight them for me."

Once again, Sam's eyes opened and this time stayed that way. With a great deal of effort, he pushed away from Dean to sit on his own. Sam turned to look at Dean then his attention briefly diverted to Bobby before he glanced back at Dean again, eyes narrowing considerably. Confusion and then a look of anger settled on Sam's face, and for a moment, Dean wondered if Sam even knew who he was.

"Sam?" Dean questioned, not liking how quiet his brother was when he knew that Sam should be saying something. And the truth of it was, he really needed to hear his brother speak, to know that he was all right. "You okay, Sammy?"

Without a word, Sam pushed himself to his feet, headed for the door, opened it and strode through it, calling back over his shoulder, "Name's Bo."

XxXxXxXxXxXxXxX

_so...probably not the ending everyone was expecting... course, there is a sequel to come called, The Things We Forget, so if you liked this story please look for it!! thanks again for reading and all the awesome reviews!! bambers;)_


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